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Each day I am born into a symphony. Tones and chords eloquently choreographed in minor keys of insurgent melancholia. Lumbering contrition escorted by virulent humiliation where no penance can seem to be found. A drum beat of loneliness as bitter as flour, marches an aging reflection that can only scowl and mock. This beat, beautifully and relentlessly recited as a tempo for horns. The onomatopoeia of these horns is my recalcitrant social seclusion, played by the trumpeter that is my refusal to accept the world as it was handed down to me. The horns, escorted as a prisoner by his guard, are the strings. Strings of repetitive failure drawn by the bow that is my incompetence and inadequacy. Each morning, I awaken to Mozart, to Stravinsky, to Mendelssohn. Each embodied by variations of my own melancholia. Each piece written so perfectly as if I were only ever meant to feel this way, that I cannot close my ears. Each days emotions crafted for me with such care, that I believe it may lead to some heightened level of introspection or enlightenment, that I force myself to learn to dance its waltz. And, each day, the piece comes to a close with no edification to be spared to me.