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.
The Buddha Has Left the Building
The Fiery Sky
Sunday Memories: Steinway to Heaven