It's in the wee hours of the morning that, after placing a full cup of coffee by my side of the bed, the sounds of typing fills the quiet.
He doesn't use his desk computer. Instead he props his feet up on a chair, puts his laptop on his lap and begins whirling and weaving words into another world.
Like awaking to Florence's morning scales, his soft tapping is music to me.
**
Related Posts:
The Buddha Has Left the Building
The Fiery Sky
Sunday Memories: Steinway to Heaven
