It’s early evening in the San Fernando Valley. The sun still shines, but shadows are growing long. Someone is strumming a guitar, either in my building or the one next door. My pulse goes up; this calm music disturbs me. As a tax-paying citizen, I have rights to quiet enjoyment of my home.
The sounds stop, and then continue. I imagine a village in south France, or Italy, where a local sits and strums, perhaps outside his stone house. My pulse goes down; I feel peace. What the heck is this, with me?
I write, and listen. Shadows stretch, over my little Tuscany, as I look out my window.