living somewhere else
there will be 3-5 other people in the bar when my idly wandering hands on the piano keys finally begin to play a proper melody. conversation for the patrons gets difficult because the music keeps distracting trains of thought. sentences die off, and restart, and restart. it's humid and raining outside, and busy. an acoustic bubble expands outwards, keeping everything and everyone dry and substantial. every day the regulars seem surprised when they eventually notice me playing, and every day i slink out of this place without collecting my pay.