My bed is littered with instruments.
I can’t sleep there.
And everywhere else I look is already full of instruments that have no other place to go.
I have restrung them, retuned them, refurbished them, reintroduced them into the repertoire, refashioned my fingers around them, reacquainted myself with their tone, their strings, my calluses need time to readjust to their attack decay and release.
Attack. Decay. Release.
Is this really what happens to me after a dram of Irish Whiskey and a new Vampire Weekend album?