Mama played the keyboard

It seems like I'm living inside a giant human heart. In reality, I think it's the music coming from the apartment of the "old Detroit rocker from the Bob Seger era" (as he told my mom in the hallway one day - along with other nuggets such as his sister's IQ and how Mama played the keyboard and Daddy was a better singer than Frank Sinatra, etc.). Anyway, it's very Poe - Edgar Allen, not Teletubbies - in my apartment right now. I'm trying to remember if I stashed a warm body in a closet this weekend between the reading, the paper grading, and the other wholesome weekend activities I enjoyed. I guess I'd remember if I did.