I'm sprawled on one of the many couches in the basement, chain-writing key signatures on a 12-stave sheet of staff paper when they enter, two girls, wearing striped socks with slippers, and they turn their heads over their shoulders and ask, "Hey, do y'all mind if we play some Enya?"

There are so many things I could say, most of them going something along the lines of, how could I mind? Enya was my idol. Enya was a goddess. Enya was the familiarity of my childhood, of the memories I couldn't recall till I heard her music and it all flooded back to me, a wash of sound. 

I'd been in the car coming back from a ski trip with one of my friends and I was overloading him with Enya, and he told me sarcastically, "The lyrics are very creative," to which I asked, "What?" "They're the most repetitive thing I've ever heard, the same thing over and over" and I just looked at him. Because that was the magic of Enya, a ceaseless repetition that made the words spin over you in circles, pulled you into the music and warmth of an abstract vision made only of dreams. 

Enya was powerful, and spiritual, and showed me glimpses of stopping clocks and the thoughts of trees and the moonlight of the Caribbean ocean all through the medium of sound. She was genius. 

But you wouldn't say of any of those things to someone you've just met, so I said, "Of course not, I love Enya!" Understatement of the century. 

But really, it made my night.