Mar 1, 2021
1 min read
Poetry
Keys
Wearied by an overly subjective world
Not feeling the spark of art much these days, I prefer the piano, hammering away at something objective, with right and wrong noted right there on the page in black and white. Instead of the ramrod of opinion, I choose a staff I can bonk in time, measuring progress with my ears; they alone tell me when I’ve screwed up. This place, on this bench, at this…
