She frequents an air-conditioned room with cabinets full of years,

And other forgotten things.

She rests her elbow on the desk, and her head on the brick wall behind her,

So often that she doesn’t mind that stupid switch plate anymore.

It’s quiet, but not really.

The door opens like a floodgate and drowns the space in noise.
(a high school band room, no less, what is there to expect?)
A room four paces by three and a half suddenly holds the world's orchestra

And it’s terribly necessary—
that sound of simultaneous trumpets and clarinets and dreams whatnot—to dissuade her mind from caving in on it’s own cacophony.