There is a harmonica on my desk, glittering in the ceiling lights. It speaks to me, and I speak back. What a wondrous object, a producer of s=weet sweet tones and melodies. The light reflecting off it is a mirror of the mind, a mirror of the soul. It looks at me, and I am awestruck. And alone. So very alone.
I was going to correct that typo, but I think it fits.