The silence in this apartment can be deafening. Ten years since Vienna. The phantom sensation of trembling hands on ivory keys is a ghost I dine with nightly. My therapist suggests this is progress—acknowledging the fear instead of building higher walls. Tonight, for the first time, I opened the piano lid. The dust was a perfect, even layer. I did not play. I simply rested my palms on the keys and remembered what it was to command such power. The discipline required to make beauty from chaos. It is not so different from the control I exert in other arenas. The precision of a well-executed composition and the precision of a lover’s hand, knowing exactly where to apply pressure to make a body sing. To find the rhythm that breaks their composure. I miss the performance. I crave the audience's breath held in unison. And privately, I crave the specific, raw sound a woman makes when she is completely unstrung, when her pussy is dripping and she’s begging for my cock to finish her. Both require a maestro’s touch. One is simply… messier.