4:34 a.m.

Accurately capturing the tone of a time and the attitudes and feelings of a moment are important. I’m awake at 4:34 a.m.  because this time is rare, and I can’t miss it. I have to write about it.

My family just left New York. I’ve been independent, for the first time, only seven minutes long. I ate a piece of toast, took a dose of medicine, sat on the couch, changed my mind, sat on the bed, squirmed, and knew that I had to pen something. Anything.

Right now I hear Prokofiev under the roar of an electric heater. I’m smirking because those jaunty melody’s from his “Romeo and Juliet” are still spinning in my brain from last night. When I’m 40, maybe I’ll hear that music somewhere and will remember this. Like “Carousel” will mark that lightheaded feeling I got standing on New York State Theatre stage on Wednesday, and how Rimsky-Korsakov’s “Russian Easter Overture” will remind me of cigarette smoke and standing outside of Avery Fisher with Anne Midgette.

I suppose it is appropriate. The death of Tybalt over and over does convey that crashing sense of loss. I will miss my family very much.