This morning I hid all the Chopin so I wouldn't find it for a while at least. I will anyway. For days now it's been frederic frederic frederic and my back aches and aches, my right little finger is stuck quite aloof from the others (it is either marooned in the must-hit-the-high-notes position, or just plain getting uppity) and my both feet match the impressions in the carpet under the Spinet, under the now polished pedals. The thing is there's not a thing more I'm going to do about it. I shall die at the Piano, or at least from the looks of it, try. O Frederic? Where art thou. . .