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October 5, 2004
Sometimes, sitting here at my typewriter, I imagine I am a piano player in a bar, quietly improvising tunes, a pianist in a bar hiding behind my Steinway, my Cool-Rays and my loosened tie, stroking the keys and loving my work to the tune of heartbreak.

It would seem that with nights like that I wouldn't need sleep. Soaking endlessly in that dream-stuff, I'd go on playing into the day and back again into night. They'd call me the piano machine. "He goes in there and forgets to come out," they'd say. "You've got to go in and get him."