I hear music when Iím trying to
work. You have to understand:
cries for the fat man with the
smeared in banana skin, the
splattered under a piano. Heads
from the droning click of keys
to even notice the tragedy of
in khakis. I trap my hours in
pin their wings to the page and
lines through them when Iíve
This is how it should be, no?
tell me how. I canít even spell
the word libretto, and yet at
of my hearing, voices rise, and
here I scribble.