No one believes me when I say that I live in music. Every move that I make is to a certain beat and time stamp, depending on the mood of the room. In my kitchen, I’m listening to light pop, in the living room there’s an orchestra, outside there is a choir.

Downstairs there’s ball room dancing, in the attic there’s a sock hop and in my bedroom there’s country. In the hallways I hear techno and in the foyer there’s jazz.

I side step, one-two, side step, three-four, as I cook dinner, and someone stops me. “What are you doing?” they ask.

“Why, walking around, cooking, dancing,” I answer.

“That makes no sense,” they say.

“Of course it does!” I respond. “There’s pop in here.”

“Soda?” they ask.

“No, music.”

No response.

I don’t let it phase me, though. Beethoven didn’t.

So I carry on dancing around the house, around my life, around the universe as the Earth hurdles through space like a broken record flying off its player and onto the cold, hard, ground where the metaphorical people and metaphorical places will crash and burn upon impact with the impossible carpeting and sound system.

The dust on my record player bothers me, so I clean it off every day.

“What are you doing?” someone asks.

“Cleaning,” I respond.

“Cleaning what?”

“The record player, of course.”

“There’s nothing there.”

“Why, don’t be silly, there is, I can see it right here.”

“No.”

They move their hand through the record player, flinging the record towards the ground. I watch it silently, almost satisfied with the noise and the chaos. “There it goes,” I say.

“There goes nothing.”