Some things never change:
Once again, it’s 4 AM and he considers the plinkety plink with strings in the background channel instead of the wow what a rush and oh my aren’t the walls moving channel or the where has my cheating lover gone again woe is me channel because this early in the morning when he wakes up and it’s time for them to come, he prefers not to have someone else’s words get in the way. The plinkety plink with strings in the background channel affords an opportunity for his ears to breathe without his mind being tied down to someone else’s lyric.
At the last minute he changes his mind, selects the wooden flute and a feathered drum with a couple of Nocturnes thrown in for good measure channel from 4 to 5, and then it’s time for the email and the way of all flesh.
Even though he sits in the park before he goes to work and takes his lunch break there, too, reading the Bhagavad Gita over and over, still he clings to what he cannot hold, fails to renounce his desire for the language, and knows that this failure will undo him, undo his day, undo the entire universe. This much he knows for certain, even as early as 4 AM, sitting at the keyboard, waiting to receive.