She said, “I want you to compose something for me.”

I said, “Get out. This isn’t the Renaissance. The era of artistic patronage is over.”

She said, “I’ll pay you.”

“How much?”

“Five hundred dollars. For just a little piece. It won’t take you a day to write it.”

“And?”

“And nothing. I don’t care if it ever gets performed or not. If you like it, you can play it. Use it as an overture for something, I don’t care.”

“Okay...”

“Here’s the theme.” And she whistled a tune. It was a nice little melody. Short and sweet.

“Fine. Come back tomorrow,” I said. “I should have something by then.” And I sat down at the piano. That’s a hint: get out and let me work.

As if I ever did any real work any more.

Oh yes, the creative springs ran dry a long time ago. The wind used to whisper in my ears; now it just drones. The drums and trumpets in the surf have been reduced to mere disruptive, repulsive noise. Even the birds just chatter rather than singing.

Is it the world, or is it just me?I wonder. And deduce.

I keep trying to build up some momentum. Recycling bits of old, half-finished compositions. Delving into music theory-you don’t have to singing glorious songs in your soul to do that, although the drudgery of it becomes hard to bear if you don’t.

So now maybe you understand why I didn’t ask any questions. Like, what’s in it for you that’s worth five hundred dollars. Where did you get this tune and why’s it so important. How did you find me—I've been sorta underground for sometime, and nobody's quite got an idea about my whereabouts .

I sat there at the piano and played the theme. Then I played a couple of variations. Made some notes. Thought about other instruments that could go with it.

The music room looks out over the street, so I keep the windows closed when I’m working. It gets stuffy after a while. When I looked up, it was dark ouside; I’d been sitting at the piano messing around with that little piece all afternoon.

I got up and opened a window and leaned out to get a breath of air. A car went by with its stereo blaring, rattling the glass in the panes. I slammed the window and went back to the piano, but it was no use; I was out of the mood. The poor girl would have to settle for what I’d accomplished so far. Which frankly wasn't any good at all.

Unfathomable as it was,the tune kept me hooked,it was almost disturbing. She was whistling the same tune in my dreams all night. I got up at sunrise(I broke new ground actually) and sat down at the piano again, but something wasn’t quite right. After a while I went over and opened the window again.

The sun was touching the underside of the horizon. Just as it peeked over the edge of the world, I heard a voice: Look at me.

I knew it was the sun. I can’t. You’ll blind me.

Then listen.

Music came pouring up over the rim of the world like an invisible fountain. It was the same music my visitor of the day before had whistled, but so much more real, it was like it stood revealing it's true identity! It was what I’d struggled to find all afternoon. All night in my dreams. No, it was what I’d heard for years as a child, as a young composer.It was what I’d given up hope of ever hearing again.

It was the voice of the world, and who knows, maybe it was the voice of.. The voice I’d been struggling to recapture for more long, desperate years than I could dare to count.

There is a price.

I know. I leaned out of my window and looked straight into the rising sun. The last thing I ever saw was the face of my mysterious visitor, etched across the brightness that burned away my vision.

The darkness is alive with music.