I was trying to fill the room with a shocked and awkward color, I was trying to limber your shuffle, the muscle wired to muscle. I wanted to be a lucid hammer. I was trying to play like the first mechanic asked to repair the first automobile. Once, Piano, every man-made song could fit in your mouth. But I was trying to play Burial’s “Ghost Hardware.” I was trying to play “Steam and Sequins for Larry Levan” without the artificial bells and smoke. I was trying to play the sound of applause by trying to play the sound of rain. I was trying to mimic the stain on a bed, the sound of a woman’s soft, contracting bellow, the answer to who I am. Before I trust the god who makes me rot, I trust you, Piano. Something deathless fills your wood. Because I wanted to be invisible, I was trying to play like a woman blacker than an unpaid light bill, like a white boy lost in the snow. I wanted to be a ghost because the skull is just a few holes covered in meat. The skin has no teeth. I was trying to play the sound of a shattered window.
