There's the church, and then there's The Church. When I say I'm going to church every Wednesday, that I can't be late, and want to be at least thirty minutes early, I get some odd looks. People automatically ask if I'm religious, then look funny for a minute as they try and remember all the anti-religion jokes they might have inadvertently offended me with. That's not why I go to church. I have my lessons there. That church is the most beautiful place on earth. Even the room I have my lesson in, which has puke green wallpaper covered in gigantic gold swirls and flowers is beautiful. When I'm in that room, life stops. I can sit on the puke green windowsill and look over the city, I can practice and nobody can hear, or I can goof around and examine the grand piano that I play with my back to. The golds, greens, browns, and miscellaneous ugly chairs don't matter. What matters is the fact that in each of them lies the remembrance of lessons that have passed. The ones where my reed worked, the ones where it didn't. The ones where I was too tired to concentrate on the notes, and consequently made a fool of myself. Not that I don't make a fool of myself often, its just a bit more dissapointing when I can't play what I'd been working on on the day that matters the most. The acoustics are perfect. It's the only time that I get to play alone in a room that big. My room at home is small, and the pratice rooms at school are even smaller. Nothing more than an ugly colored closet. I go after days of school, and all my pent up energy is released in the music. That doesn't happen as much at home. That room can absorb more. I guess it doesn't really matter to anyone else, but I love that room, and if I ever move, I'm going to miss it. Everything about it is perfect. I've spent so much time in it room, that I've actually gotten angry when others use it. It's my room. Nobody else's. It doesn't seem right that others use that room to talk or sing or teach about God. Its an invasion of my privacy, really. Nobody else sees it like I do.