I did not raise two poets for this level of whining. One of you writes like a candle in a storm, the other acts allergic to a draft. by George Sand

Alfred, you lost an argument to silence. Please do not speak to me about composure.

Frédéric, darling, you could turn a cough into a sonata and still find a way to make it my problem.

You say that like you didn't spend half your life in a coat and the other half in my business.

She calls me dramatic while she turns every room into a court trial and every dinner into a chapter.

Between the poet who performs pain and the pianist who frames me for a breeze, I was the only adult in the room.

At least my complaints are in the key of dignity. Yours arrive with theater tickets.