I used to park my station wagon by the pond in the arboretum and sit inside listening to music. Just sit there for the sake of it. There was really nothing special about the moment save that I was in my car with the windows up, by myself, watching the light change on the surface of the pond. Sometimes I would sing along until my throat was knotted from crying. I have always been particularly susceptible to the minor-key theatricality of an emotional carry; songs in which some kind of private system of relations is twisted, ruptured, or confessed to. This was a method of engaging in an unshareable moment. A moment which does not and cannot involve any other person on this earth. It seemed to me I took the communion of the song alone, isolated in the chamber of my enraptured experience. I worked through these desperate imperceptible ranges in my car as the breeze twisted the forest beyond it. It had the quality of an ecstatic prayer.