Brass bed, piled high with sheets, dogs, and dog chews,

a mostly-covered vent across to muffle the noise from the studio below,

Picasso’s woman and bird overhanging a cluttered desk,

papers,

books,

bills,

lamp,

iPad,

Laptop,

folders,

and CBD bottles,

black out curtains draping a balcony slider,

two hard cased cellos in the corner by the window,

abutting the shrunken armoire that supports

a pile of books,

sound machine,

lamp,

and journals,

behind the chair that faces

the music stand, Bach’s “Arioso” open, sitting atop a limp bow,

and to the right is the green whitewashed wooden dresser,

sporting

candles,

ceramic boxes my mother made for me as a child,

sage,

Paolo Santo,

a yogini tea light burner,

and essential oils,

atop and adjacent to the closet,

white panels, white walls, white Picasso,

brass,

wood,

and metal,

this is where I sleep, play, pray, and work.