I tried to tell her about the words that entered my head like an ice pick wedged into the left side of my head, pounding on my forehead from the inside like a cement block. And that I didn't want to create music anymore, I just wanted to soak in it for hours and hours, spin record after record until the sun crept down the walls and crawled back under its blue blanket. I wanted to explain to her that my tears were just warm white wine that I accidentally spilled on my pillowcases, and describe the torn wedding dress that I found in Vegas, tell her how I cut it up and made it into curtains, but they still wanted to fly out of the windows because they didn't belong with me even though they were anchored too tightly to the walls and every time they tried sliding out when I had my back turned, the wind just blew them back in. I wanted to tell her all of this but she only managed a short response in the spaces between the cramped words that jittered out of her pen. You're just a chemical mistake, she said. Nothing a few pills can't correct.