I told her I didn't come to her house only for the piano. Which was true and mostly not true, because heaven almighty, I would rather stay there in the center of that tall room at those perfect keys than be anywhere else on earth. There was a boy there too who knew everything, not as in morethanyouandlikestoshowit but he knew his music and what he could do which was everything and every thing, and was the sort that would ease through it all breezily amazingly and then ask you to play. It took me some time to remember I could at all, but I could of course I could and then we played together which was best. The boy who could play anything loved the Beautiful Piano too. He said it just gives back to your hands and it does, it sends the music right back into you and it swirls and grows and makes more and more until you can't ever get away or want to. Later I tiptoed back in when there was no one anymore, like I just wanted it to be and I played the pieces that I always imagine in Beautiful Piano notes because they deserve them, like the Chopin oh my soul the Chopin and I played Satie and I played Schubert and I played Alicia Keys and sang until I could have cried to have to leave mmm sometimes I feel like I don't belong, anywhere. Today I haven't played at all. And I won't until I will; it seems like every time I go from there, for a while my head and hands are left behind.