The Wind Whisperer
The cadence of a cold heart, caught on the cruel, bitter winds of the world. Drifting, endlessly, falling closer to the ground, but never quite reaching. An illusion of flying. If you can...catch me... :)
A story. An open ended question. If you could dance along the riverbanks of each waking morning, what colour would the sunrise paint your eyes? If this were a ballet, our feet would stay upon the ground. But we'd like to think otherwise, wouldn't we? Maybe this story is a pretty good one. Maybe the glove doesn't fit the hand. Maybe the glove just fits.
I wrote an album, A collective of improvisation, An attempt at the permanence of inspiration. In itself, an irony, hypocritical. To capture the now. Because I'm afraidThere will never be beauty again. It hurts to write songs that will never be told It hurts to write music and knowThat I'm not good enough. It's easierTo run.
