In his book Meaning, Galer wrote, “God created the human race as an experiment; He wanted to see if life was capable of creating for Him. Ultimately, He wanted us to produce beauty.” I felt that I had failed Him. I had been practicing from a young age, yet my music remained mostly devoid of beauty. And despite that fact, I continued to practice. “It’s for my family,” I would always tell myself when I listened to myself play. I wasn’t referring to my mother or father, but to my mid-family, the Burkes. The Burkes have been famed for their music for the past 60 years (before that, they weren’t really famous for anything). The most well-known singer’s name was John Burke Raymond. The best composer was Sophia Burke Kasparov. Burkes weren’t just everywhere in the music world. They entirely comprised it. Even my music teacher, Ms. Tilson, was a Burke. She was very good at being a Burke. She didn’t just play well; she played with a captivating, eccentric style. She would be famous if only her personality didn’t reflect that to quite the extreme that it did. She was almost crazy. I have never felt like a Burke. My music was bitter to the ears. People sometimes asked me if my viola was broken. The pastor who gave me my middlename at baptism continued to insist that he had given me the correct one. The pastor was a Follower of Galer who had converted from an older religion after being “shown the way” by older Followers. As a result, he had no middlename. He went by Papa Chris, and everyone in town going back two generations loved him. One night, after a particularly bad concert for the town’s Winter Festival, when I was eleven, I asked Papa Chris if he was sure that he hadn’t made a mistake in choosing my middlename. “Of course not! I can see you improving every day!” he said. He was lying. I’m not sure why he lied, but the forced smile on his face made the lie clear. “Even my mom winced!” I said in protest, as if I had a point to prove. He went on to assure me that I would get better over time. Even Burkes weren’t always prodigies, after all. Despite his reassurance, my viola still sounds like its voice is cracking whenever I try to play. The night after the concert I dreamt I was dancing across the surface of a viola dressed in ballet clothes, desperately trying to keep up with the flawless music. It ended with me falling off the edge into the dark abyss. These midnight terrors continue to this day: the most recent example involved me playing music for a party of fiery demons who would cook me alive if I failed. Unreality, Galer’s book on dreams, says that dreams of this sort (dreams in which the subject is forced to do something for a party of festive demons) usually represent a need for flight. Unreality is not his most religious work. My best friend then was Jonah Rosedale Beatty. The Rosedales were known for being aristocratic. They were envied by most, and they had formed a tight alliance among themselves over time. Rosedales often came to resent their status as much as it was envied by others. Jonah, who hardly believed that he would become rich because of his Rosedale name, often joked about his place in society. When I would desperately attempt to play my music, he would cheer me on by saying, “When I become rich, I’ll make you my head musician!” This made us both laugh, but I secretly wished that it would come true. I would daydream about conducting an orchestra in Jonah’s mansion, being applauded by the nation’s most powerful. It was one of the few things motivating me to continue. Jonah had to leave last year. The riots in our city were getting especially bad, and Rosedales were the main target. As a result, Rosedale leaders started paying for their fellow Rosedales, whom they saw as their nieces and nephews, to leave the rioting cities. We lived in one of the safest parts of town, in a very open space where almost everybody was contented, but Jonah’s paranoid parents took the money anyway. A few months ago, I received this letter from Jonah:   Dear Head Musician, The country is very boring. I can’t tell my parents because that would be ungrateful, so I decided to send you a letter. A lot of the kids here are Rosedales like me. It’s the only thing we can really bond over. One of them, Mason, is from our school in the city. Do you remember Mason? I didn’t until he approached me. I never even knew that he was a Rosedale! The people in the countryside are excited to have us all here. They seem to be under the false impression that we’ll draw people out into their towns. They think that wherever Rosedales go, everyone else will follow. Given how much people seem to hate us, I wouldn’t agree. The weather out here is usually very sunny and dry. In the winter, there was no snow. My parents say that I’ll be able to visit them this winter. I guess we’ll be able to see each other again! I’ll be excited to see how much my chief musician has improved! Please write back! Yours truly, Jonah “ When I become rich, I’ll make you my head musician!. It took me a month to write back. I wrote a very short letter because I honestly couldn’t think of much to say. I was especially reluctant because I didn’t want to admit that I had not improved at all. Here is my letter:   Dear Jonah, If you were hoping for improvement, you will probably be disappointed. It will be a while before I’m prepared to be your Head Musician. It is good to hear that you are