The savage animals copulating in my piano make every melody glitch a little. Purple spurts of embodied sound bounce around the atrium. Furry fury rages by the gift shop. This is a lighting hospital. They do all kinds of procedures on light and light fixtures. In the gift shop there’s a card you can buy that says, “Congratulations! It’s a photon!” And there’s a picture of a little photon, absolutely beaming. My music is meant to mellow the plight of lights that were flickering coming in coming out as dark, burned out lightbulbs. There are a myriad of ways a light can die, splayed open on the operating table of life.