There is an opera singer who lives on the floor where I reside in DTLA. I always stop outside her door to listen to her amazing voice, which makes the entire building writhe in audio ecstasy. If the building had toes, it’s toes would be curled back over 180 degrees. Sometimes I just sit on the floor across from her door to hear her angelic voice. Her range seems to exceed Yma Sumac’s. It’s a mighty and powerful voice that could move mountains. One day her door was slightly ajar, and I stopped anyway listen to her. She looked at me , smiled and invited me in. So I went into her apartment. She offered to share her mint tea over loaded with lemon and honey with me . I just sat in this old wooden chair with a red velvet cushion , closed my eyes and listened as she sang. Her voice made my wilted spirit soar. Before I left I asked her if I could come again. ” Anytime”, she smiled, as she placed her elegant left hand on my right shoulder. ” Do you mind if I bring my lap top? ” ” Whatever you like.. Just knock four times. I don’t like odd numbered knocks on my door it’s bad luck.” she said laughingly. So a few days later, I knocked on her door four times. She let me in and offered me the chair and a cup of tea. As she sang I opened my lap top, which was in the repair shop for two weeks, and began to rewrite my screen play. Her voice inspires me It lifts me because she sings from her heart, and from the inner guts of her emotional chambers. . While I wrote she would often turn around and wink at me, as if to encourage me to retain my manic level of productivity, I went back again the other day, and offered here a new box of tea, a jar of locally made honey, and two fresh organic lemons. She hugged me, told me to sit down. Poured me some tea and began to sing, and I began to write.