But I keep on writing. For decades, I had always written with music in the room Haydn, or maybe the funk group called War, or early Beethoven, or the mystic and eventually crazed Russian, Scriabin. If I'd had to stay on terms with the neighbors, I had always switched off my loudspeakers and listened over my headphones. The music had always washed over me and calmed me while I wrote. But every sound is annoying now.
Music is noise.
The sounds that I want to listen to are inside me. They are clanging, but I want to hear them. I have to hear them. They are unfriendly and urgent. They are asking me to join them in their frightful pealing.