My piano teacher says I’m his most advanced pupil. Such lavish praise feeds my egotism—I feel lightheaded whenever I think of it. My fingertips on those ivory keys—how I soar, transcend, mold my mundane existence into eternal form—yet I’m not so intoxicated I’ve lost the necessary discipline. And besides spirits, ladies seek to distract me from my higher purpose. I’ve made a commitment to music from which there’s no retreat. Never again will dissipation lure me from my vocation. But I ramble. Let me sign off. I hope to hear from you soon.
I write you on the sly since Mitchell wouldn’t approve. Your progress with the piano staggers me. I’m very happy for you. I recall when you were limited to plunking out painful arpeggios on pianos of dubious merit.
To change the subject, I’ve been feeling unfeminine lately due to a perceived change in the attitudes of those around me. The one time I felt truly feminine was when dancing years ago in a discotheque—a stranger touched my waist on the way to the dance floor and my dress collapsed far in, revealing a deep curve.