Play to me, Chopin. Play to me your music, your love, your proof that we are alive! And what a thing to prove, no? Who are we to declare ourselves beings? What audacity. And yet, here I am listening to Chopin's Nocturnes. Play into my dreams, Chopin. Play into my heart and soul and prove me a musician; prove me alive.

I'll play you, Shostakovitch, Blazhevich. The "angry" Russian composers. Their music is somehow more real. At least earlier it was. Make love to me, Shostakovitch. Fuck me silly, Blazhevich. I'm all yours.

Some musician I am.