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I need to get it back. My world has rid me of music-making moments…almost entirely of my own doing. It’s my creative cycle. I distance myself from it, almost as if protecting myself from my own failure. “Saving myself” from music nearly does me in after a while. Finally I find my feet again and turn my fingertips purple as I climb back from absence, white flesh scraping across steel strings; bar-chord formations locking my wrist in a death grip of tension, I fret, backtracking until I can no longer feel the tips. Why I punish myself this way, I’ll never know. I shudder to peel away the layers in 50-minute psychological sprints.