Mornings after a particularly grueling night of sleep-deprived piano practice are like wandering into a damp cave blindfolded – disorienting. I stumble out of my room, my creaky floorboards protesting the weight of my footsteps. Last night's coffee, half-consumed and stone-cold, stares back at me from a chipped mug on the kitchen counter as I rummage through my cluttered drawers for a clean T-shirt. The piano still echoes, its mournful melodies trapped somewhere between my eardrums and whatever's left of my sleep-addled brain. A drool-stained keyboard awaits, mocking me with its blank, keyboard-y silence – a harsh reminder of my impending defeat in my weekly jazz club competition.
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