Whenever I start playing the Jew’s harp, I get goosebumps. The pleasure is visceral. The sound and the vibrations that go through my brain are inseparable. Soon after I start, I get into the stride. At first I am conscious of people walking up or down Borgo, for only the front door of my house separates us, but then I become oblivious of passers by. I just play. And I imagine myself high in the rugged mountains. Completely alone. Playing for myself. My favorite instrument becomes alive. Having played for a while, I round it off with a few repetitive sounds suggesting the end. As soon as I put the Jew’s harp beck in its place on the dining table, I sprout a smile. I have no idea when I will pick the instrument up again, but this always happens without any premeditation. It just happens, but I would never start playing if I can hear someone walking up or down the street. If only my house were on top of a tall mountain. The only audience I would not mind at all is a flock of sheep. Their bleating would be my just reward.