Songs without Words

I woke up this morning (~5:30) after two hours of semi-conscious meditation.  I felt very sad and demotivated, and I knew it was because of something someone had said to me during a phone conversation — one that I could hardly remember at all.  Oh well?  What one says when one is extremely tired (or drunk, I suppose) tends to reveal one’s true feelings.
I practiced violin for awhile, rekindling my spirits with Bartok, then writing a page of a possible concerto idea, the B theme of which is a pair of tone rows that blasphemously are harmonized with a tonal jazz vamp.  During the course of practicing, I realized that the reason my middle finger was swollen and hurting was because a small object beneath several layers of skin, what appeared to be a short clipping of hair from shaving, or something of that sort.  To remove it, I dug up my art supplies from a box in my closet and picked out a short needle.  I disinfected it and started poking around and slicing through several layers of the overgrowth (the skin likely grew over it to try to engulf it – I made sure to only cut through upper layers without blood vessels).   But the lighting in my room is awful – it’s very, very dim, so I ended up having to go right next to the fluorescent light over the sink, which is many times brighter (if only because it illuminates such a small area).  I successfully removed the hair, wiped the fingertip down with alcohol, and tried to reseal the skin.  I still wonder what acupuncture would feel like.