Upstairs, Downstairs.

I love that I married a musician (codename: The Boy). It means that every nook and cranny of our house is stashed with instruments or canvases, paintbrushes or guitar picks, headphone jacks or bottles of ink. There's always new riffs playing through the speakers and love notes illustrated on the bedroom walls.
While tonight The Boy and his twin codename: Doppelganger are vocalising some new parts of a song, I have the upstairs to myself, old sketchbooks and issues of Frankie spread across the lounge room floor for inspiration, paint pallet resting precariously on the couch arm. The voices, beats and strums float up the stairs, occasionally interjected with laughter. It's repetitive, as they constantly re-work their piece, but I love it.