this is all getting silly, caught up in the rush and the rapture of a few bars of sound. the digital playback of my own recorded voice, singing half-written lyrics i only half believe. but there is no greater thrill than that coming together of synapse and fingers on strings and on keys, and the stretch of throat to make perfect the notes to make perfect the music that make perfect the song. the addiction. the fix. the unending drive to do something, anything for no reason at all. to contrive, first a melody, and then put in strings, then harmony cascades in at dizzying speed. it cajoles me to add just one more part, just on more layer of depth to my art.

but art is hard. and harder to find. well the truth is i only half consider it mine. but in that consideration, in that momentary high, it doesnt matter how much air time it gets, how many cds i can sell, how many people on the planet will recognize my face. it's the grace that the notes and the rythm affords to a mediochrity like my own.