The headphones are on the head but no music is playing. It's kind of nice. Blocks out the helicopters, the car alarms, the sound of the freeway. Just the fears and hopes pinging off the inside of the cranium, like the sound of a heavy rock heaved onto a frozen lake.
It's been a fallow season. But when springtime comes, it comes all in a rush, and all the flowers race to outbloom each other. You would not believe the music that is heaving itself up out of the soil. It makes me jump up and shout. I want to finish it immediately to push it on every person who walks their dog down the sidewalk in front of my house.
I wonder who writes this music - the music that I can't recall formulating? I would like to meet that person. Drinks are on me. Perhaps I will be lucky and that person will be Leonard Cohen or Samuel Barber. Probably not, but you never know.
In any case, I can't seem to kill it or convince it to leave me alone. Perhaps I am doomed. Perhaps I am blessed. So it goes. I can't wait to play it for someone.