Teaching my younger students a simple melody today, I was struck by how music holds both joy and sorrow in the same notes. The same hands that play a happy tune are the ones that ache to be held at night. I love my work, but coming home to silence is its own kind of symphony—a long, quiet one where the only rhythm is my own heartbeat. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever feel that frantic, sweaty, out-of-tempo rhythm again… the kind where my pussy is being fucked so hard I can’t catch my breath, where a man’s sweat drips onto my tits and his groans are the only music I need. It’s not just the sex, but the beautiful, messy noise of two bodies trying to become one. The silence afterwards, with a heavy arm across me, is the real masterpiece. I miss composing that.