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We cling to our musical history. A thousand motets, responsoria and cantata we have performed in our combined career. Still, we move ever forward. Canon and improvisation we sing alike. A lifetime of training in our every breath.

We have a toy poodle we walk when we are barren of inspiration. We listen intently to the astonishment of passersby elicited by our poodle dyed the hue of a bruised pistachio, our poodle named Giuseppe in honor of all Italians in the world.

Aww, these passersby cry, and we await the perfect intonation to inspire us to our grand opus, 32 Variations on the Theme of Aww. We arrange ourselves like the pipes of an organour minds tuned perfectly, our throats hoarse from too many cigarettes and the occasional mound of chew. We are making music as we speak: notes and bars and refrains and movements. We are vocalizing our passions in high Cs and the rest of our limited alphabet. We sing of bricks and refrigerators and Cadillacs overcome with rust.

Back home, we indulge in danish and petite-four and macrobiotic sticky buns, all washed down with hot chocolate made from powder (three packets per 8 oz. cup for the sweetest, absolutely sweetest mixture) to wobble our vocal chords, for as our bodies get denser and denser and bend the floorboards with our ever-increasing weight we feel our communal voice rise to even vaster heavens. We chime together in a most solid note, a most unwavering note, a note that drives others to drink for want of such beauty. We conspire to melodious greatness. We understand their envy and we weep and wail for them in wondrous vocal clarity; we mourn for their unachievable goals, our Stabat Mater accompanied by yellow crumbs erupting from between our teeth.

Days end, we wear cloned flannel nightgowns and we travel upstairs in an elliptical cluster, our steps in perfect rhythm so not one of us knees another in the backside. Candles held reverently before us, we sing of nightingales and crickets and the way fog settles in ghostly manner when darkness falls.

Nightingales and crickets, we sing, and the way fog settles inghostly manner when darkness falls.

Ghostly manner, the baroque section of us echoes.

This is our opera, our day inhaled and exhaled in exquisite musicality. We huff out our collective lights and we settle to sleep, to rest. We driftoff with a hum, the like of which skylarks dream.

      — Richard Weems