At one time I lived in a small ghetto a few blocks from the Berklee School of Music. It was a dismal lodging enlivened by an unplaceable cornetist somewhere in the building, practicing at odd hours. You'd think that would be annoying, but it wasn't.

The softly muted sounds filtered into my rooms as a near daily reminder that my past held no sway there, the present was filled with a siren voice plaintive, unfamiliar, calling.

10/27/2022