So tonight, feeling melancholy and vague I spent an hour or so in the music room. I like this room in our house because it is painted a soft dijon mustard color, with Monet and dried roses - and a huge painting on the side wall I'm sure must have been bought cheap at a flea market or something. In any case, it is a perfectly calm painting and one which some old grandmother probably treasured above her 1930's wooden settle. I love it. But I love the room more. I love the room because in there I am surrounded by art, not just already created art, like the paintings or the skill of decorating, but by art which hasn't yet been created. Songs still unsung, even not yet composed. Words not yet said, much less thought. And in there I am surrounded by all that has made me love simplicity.

Gliding six bronze strings. Touching ivory keys. Bowing four steel threads. Roughly running my hand across the tight skin of a djembe.

Knowing that I am touching the future. The future art which will be.

And I played.

Like a child in the store of his youth, I played. Something made up, a story which no one else understands, but to me is the story of my heart.