Dowlands I think it is called, the composer.

It is passed on from my late mother in law.

There is a soprano singing the ballads.

And guitar.

And flutes.

The sun is blasting on me , half my body, in the kitchen at the table.

Billy is splayed out, four in the air , on his back, on the caramel couch where I left him to go make coffee.

It is a lovely afternoon. Noon, exactly.

Such music reminds me of the soundtrack to the movie about a castrata named Farinelli. It is very beautiful music. 

I have a lot of night visitors on the shop, at around 1am pacific time, every night. Still no sales. I am printing a couple of copies that will be for sale of The trickle of my life; my ancestors Family fiction, in original english version. Sixteen bucks but it truly will be a collectable as I print very few.