I slept through the whole evening, my entire collection of Pink Floyd playing in the background. I drifted in and out of sleep as the albums played through in alphabetic order. Despite the countless times I've listened to them all, tonight was special. They worked through my subconscious, played through my dreams, and acted as a cue for different trains of thought. Often I'd awake to sounds that seemed familiar but difficult to place and foreign at the same time. I was woken gently to the clocks at the beginning of Time and I felt at home not just in my own bed, but in time itself. Finally, during the ballad at the end of the Narrow Way on Ummagumma, I started out of bed without thinking and unlatched the case to my guitar, which had been sharing the bed with me the whole time, filling the loneliness, and, as if I had arrived just in time to join in, began to play with all my heart, and ended the evening by becoming a part of Wish You Were Here. I don't feel so alone anymore. Friends come and go, but music will always be close to my heart.