i miss my piano. it’s sitting at home in a dark hall, with no tunes of love to accompany it.

i remember days when i’d just sit and play, for hours and hours, with no particular aim in mind.

i miss the feel of those delicate keys tingling beneath my fingertips.

i miss the sound of that old-fashioned music.

these days, i can’t play, because there are no decent pianos in sight.

and even if there were, what would i play?

an oldie for my dad, a hymn for my granddad, a love song for a home i’m not sure i know.

then maybe after all that, i’ll allow myself something to feel better.

i have so much work to do, so many things to see to, but all i can think about is the weird rattling noise in the walls of my room, and how nice a tub of lucid, almost-burning water would feel on my icy skin. How odd.

people talk about water running dry, i talk about floods that sweep me off my feet.

did you hear? john edwards withdrew from the race. what do you know, sometimes objects in the mirror are just objects in the mirror. As Freud so eloquently put, “sometimes a cigar is just a cigar”.

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