I'm writing from this wonderful hotel in Upstate New York where in my room sits this little box radio that gently hums at all hours of the day.

It's partial to Patsy Cline, "I'm crazy, crazy for feeling so lonely––". It plays in the morning when I stir awake. It plays at midday when I pare the pages of a book. It plays prior to supper as I wash away the day. It plays well past midnight when I stare at the ceiling and watch the occasional headlight of a passing car paint the ceiling yellow.

Radios are like your favorite people. You always want them around––even when you want to be alone, you still want them around––and when they're not around, you become intimately aware of their absence.

It's exactly as it says in the ending of The Catcher in the Rye, "Don't ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody."