Playing Chopin and Mozart late at night is more potent than two pots of espresso. It leaves me feeling Incredible Hulk-like, with hot hands and large veins running like tributaries down my arms and fingers, stopped suddenly by fingertip dams. Eyes bright, breathing fast, I kept Buck awake for another hour going on about Chopin and his penchant for double sharps, and configurations of notes that contort my hands beyond their ability to respond gracefully. Laughing out loud at Mozart’s amazing variations on the melody I grew up knowing as “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” — I begin to consciously regulate my breathing and dial back the energy so I’ll be able to sleep.
Hundred proof joy.