I said, “Forty five?”
and he smiled. “Forty five.”
“You can write forty five songs…”
I said
“…in a day.”
He nodded, as if in assent.
“And you do this regularly?”
I asked,
for clarity.
He beamed
and said nothing more.
“I don’t think so,” I replied
and he looked at me
smugly,
secure.

“OK,” I said,
“So, these songs you write…
If they’re at minimum length
of, say,
two minutes a piece,
then you’ve spent ninety minutes playing them
the very first time you’ve come up with them.
Any revisions?
At all?
For any of them?
Let’s double the time.”

“And,” I continued,
“how do you make sure they’re actually written?
I’m assuming you don’t write them out.
Do you record them?
Do you record them
that first time?
Do you even have time to listen to your product?”

“Hell,” I asked,
“Does anyone ever listen?
And what about quality control?”
I wondered, “Do you have any?”

“It boils down to this:”
I said,
“How do you define song?
How do you define write?
How do you define forty five?
And how do you define you?””
I looked at him,
begging, with my eyes,
that he try to defy my impervious logic.

“I define songs,”
he explained,
“as the thoughts in my head,
which, are lyrical in nature
and never exceed the identified forty five.
I generate them,
I experience them,
and then,
I let them go.”
He gave me a meaningful glance
and said,
“I am writing one now.”

“You are not using the same language I am,”
I said.
He didn’t response
which, I suppose,
proved my point.