Everyone has their own musical addiction. Mine is jazz-funk. This style seems to understand me. It doesn’t ask to be perfect. It just walks next to me when I close my eyes and sway to the rhythm, as if there’s no one else.

I love the morning “Pick up the Pieces” by Average White Band — it invigorates better than coffee. Or, if my soul asks for depth, I turn on “Chameleon” by Herbie Hancock — it’s not music, it’s a flow in which I dissolve.

My evening playlist is always something with pears and a guitar, like Jamiroquai. And if you want to feel bold and a little brazen, then “Just Kissed My Baby” by The Meters. No one makes this vibe better.

Sometimes I add new tracks, sometimes old ones, like wine, only tastier. Not because I have to, but because something clicks inside: "Oh, this is my mood for today."

Music for me is like a form of clothing for the soul. It says for me what words can't. And yes, I listen to the same tracks hundreds of times. Because they are mine. Because with them I am real.