You latch the door. It’s your first time in the office of your new house on the floor. Leonard Cohen’s Jukebox Playlist is playing: Joni Mitchell could drink a case of you, Fats Domino found his thrill on Blueberry Hill, and the sexiest hands are riding up and down the keyboard of you to Chopin’s Etude Opus 10 Number 1. You’re not supposed to write this out loud. But you are.
There’s a world inside. Sometimes it wakes you up in the night pounding on your chest from the inside: Let! Me! Out!
Who are you? you ask.
I am writing out loud, it replies.