tortured artists, taylor swift

when the evening is spread out against the sky

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, 
The muttering retreats

(T.S Eliot)

The alarm on her cellphone jolted her awake with a thunderous sound, pulling her mind from a not-so-deep sleep with a shock of distorted dream images. Her chest heaved a little, and Taylor surveyed her surroundings. It wasn't her bedroom; she deduced this from the back pain and the salmon-colored wallpaper that signaled she was in her apartment's studio. Leaning over the piano, Taylor realized that the jarring noise, along with the alarm, was the cacophony of random keys she had pressed abruptly.

She took a deep breath and yawned lazily, reaching out with a lazy hand to grope for her cell phone and silence the infernal alarm.

A sheet of music lay on the piano, accompanied by a miraculously half-full bottle of wine.

As she got up and headed towards her room, memories flooded her mind-memories of the mysterious young woman from the café who called herself Nobody. Apparently unaware that Taylor was the most famous person within a five-block radius of the Enchanted Brews café.

Arriving home with the poem in hand, Taylor had read and reread the verses. She recognized them but couldn't, for the life of her, recall the author. The blonde had wanted to search the internet, but the challenge lay in trying to find the information from memory, as she had done with Emily Dickinson's poem.

Entering her bathroom, she faced herself in the mirror-blonde hair tied in a low ponytail, faint circles under her eyes from a poorly slept night, and electric blue eyes buzzing with a new topic to be excited about.

A new friend, perhaps.

But for that, she needed to know who she was talking to, to uncover the poet behind the verses.

Taylor found the crumpled paper in the pocket of her sweatpants, the constant handling had left it slightly worn. She recognized the words but had no time now to decipher the author's identity. Each passing second made her later for the studio session with Aaron, a crucial session since the composer wouldn't be in town for long.

After finishing her shower, she chose spring-associated clothing-jean shorts, an oversized white shirt with small floral patterns, accessorized with gold earrings, warm rosy makeup, and a cap that made her bangs almost touch her eyelashes.

Jeremy, the longtime driver and bodyguard, awaited for her in the garage. Taylor greeted the other guards in the building before getting into the car after Jeremy opened the rear door for her.

No formal escort was needed as in more formal and public events. Additional security would be waiting at the studio building, ready to handle any paparazzi crowds.

The journey took no more than twenty-five minutes, considering the infamous New York traffic-her favorite city, always a source of inspiration. The car passed by a bookstore, and the image of the brunette flashed in her mind again, along with the peculiar books she seemed to be reading.

Taylor imagined her long brown hair, wondering if it felt as soft as it appeared. She yearned to run her fingers through the strands and braid them, she believed a braid would suit her.

~•~

There's a sort of whiplash when working with Aaron soon after a session with Jack. They couldn't be more different. Jack exuded explosiveness and excitement, while Aaron seemed introspective, offering soft nods with words of encouragement as they delved into a new song. Taylor often consulted each of them when a song needed specific elements from the producers.