As I play my Piano,a restfulness comes over me,
This tuned -drum ,this diatonic strand of tones soothes me.
After an hour or so,I feel better,I am at one with my head sounds,
As these are pushed out into the air,with vibration assured strokes from my fingers.
Now,as the witching hour approaches,I seek to settle into slumber,into rest ,into inactivity,
But prey:I’m not at all sleepy,even after carol and prelude,Moondance and Bond theme.
There is now that residue,that impression,that childhood memory intact in my heart ,
That I am ,after all the words,the tears,the jestures,I am a man of art,and that is me.