35, Temple Rule

Wednesday, May 17th

The morning rose empty, not even a breeze to tumble across my valley. Looking west, the blank road struck out to nowhere.

This expanse needed some music. Each time I played produced a unique song. The rhythms, styles, keys and moods—combined with my inability to read a single note—ensured every tune enjoyed free rein to broadcast an original composition. My rhythms weren’t afraid to reach over the hills, announcing a presence. As the coyotes bedded down in those early hours, they heard me howling. The strains echoed me, and in turn, as I heard them, assured me I still existed.

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