As a child Edward the First found his natural home at the piano unbridled by the structure of lessons. He had no Henry Mannox in the rural fields of Penn’s Woods, so he relied on the vinyl presses of Elvis, Aretha, Freddie, and The Beatles to guide him through the phases of his upbringing. Thanks to his Fathers proclivities to composition, and Mother’s ivory drawn hands, there was always music in the house. Singing in the hallowed halls of higher beings soon turned a cold shoulder to his identity, and so as a survival tactic he retreated to a castle of the mind until he was able to explode on stages across the country side; making up for lost time. For decades he compartmentalized himself into canopic jars to maneuver in the world of theatre where one’s position is safely, and starkly dictated in types and tropes. All was seemingly well, until a long dark shadow cast its weight to the very farthest corners of the Earth granting permission to the weary and worked to breath and reassess. As this shadow lifts, some realize that the Before Times were not good enough, were not what one set out for, and are simply not suitable for one to return. The structured walls are crumbling, and Edward the First has broken free - Renaissancing to the fullest extent.