Wingspan

I am different now, since my return to America. Some would say broken. Others, incorrigible. I have lost all desire to work for pay, and instead stay locked in my hermit's attic, working away furiously at a song cycle that I'm sure will move the world to tears, or perhaps even applause. Of course, there are those who doubt, or simply ignore, but there is also Hint, the odd fellow who lives beneath me. A self-proclaimed music scholar, he saunters up from time to time to hear my latest piece, brandishing criticisms and spurring me to revision, always with a fascinated interest underpinning his stern pronouncements. I'm certain he sees true promise in my project, even if he won't yet admit it.

There is a curious woman, too, who has been visiting my attic of late, bringing me scraps of bread and wine along with her own considerable enthusiasm. She listens to my half-made songs with rapture in her eyes, assures me of their power despite my protests to the contrary, and kisses me furiously on the cheeks and forehead before leaving me again to my labors. After she departs, I float above the morass of the world for several hours, hastily scribbling down new ideas and inspirations before her presence recedes, and I return again to the ground. Her name is Mia. She is a brilliant and singular creature.