I’m taking a trip down memory lane, scrolling through old photos. Debussey’s Claire de Lune's whispering sanguinely in the background. It can be challenging sometimes, writing to music. With each crescendo, I’m no longer me, but rather some super hero, trusted with greater purpose beyond singing about his feelings.

Khatia Buniatishvili is the pianist, and her performance is effortless. There’s a chasm greater than the Grand Canyon separating a very good player (like myself) and world class soloists like Khatia Buniatishvili. That kind of tunnel-visioned dedication's simply more than most intellects are capable, and people who genuinely practice ten hours a day and don’t come out coke-addled maniacs who deeply resent their well-intentioned yet domineering parents are unicorn-in-the-witness-protection-program level rare.

I stopped writing just now for a full five minutes, closing my eyes, taking in each expertly depressed key and barely audible squeak from the damper pedal. I was going to write about family. Inspired by a picture of my cousin and me sipping whiskey gingers on the tour bus, I was going to make fun of my hat, compliment my cousin’s smile and express gratitude for music allowing me to travel to far flung corners of the world and knock back cocktails with variously accented Larkins. And I will. Tomorrow, maybe. But now, in this moment, a frigid and muddled day's giving way to a crystalline evening, and I'm relaxing into that fortifying sorta happy-sad we artists love.

Regardless of where my career takes me, or whatever twists and turns life invites, I'm glad I'll always find solace in music. It hasn't steered me wrong yet.