I can remember starving in a br small room in a strange city br shades pulled down, listening to br classical music br I was young I was so young it hurt like a knife br inside br because there was no alternative except to hide as long br as possible-- br not in self-pity but with dismay at my limited chance: br trying to connect. br br the old composers -- Mozart, Bach, Beethoven, br Brahms were the only ones who spoke to me and br they were dead. br br finally, starved and beaten, I had to go into br the streets to be interviewed for low-paying and br monotonous br jobs br by strange men behind desks br men without eyes men without faces br who would take away my hours br break them br piss on them. br br now I work for the editors the readers the br critics br br but still hang around and drink with br Mozart, Bach, Brahms and the br Bee br some buddies br some men br sometimes all we need to be able to continue alone br are the dead br rattling the walls br that close us in. br br br Anonymous submission.