I always look forward to a quiet night at home alone. Unplanned moments, residual from the day, or the result of a poorly planned evening, little more 'why not' than 'how about'. Play a little music, forcing my aching fingers to form a chord while I swing in and out of the sentiment, generally leaving with a bad taste in my mouth that was my voice. Clicking around, I settle for some music and am overwhelmed by a desire to write.

What?

I don't know.