Take me. I’m an ordinary player in the key of C. And my will was broken by my pride and my vanity. Who’s gonna love you when you’re looks are gone? God will. Like he waters the flowers on your window sill.
In the clearing stands the boxer, and a fighter by his trade. And he carries a reminder of every glove that laid him down, or cut him till he cried out in his anger and his shame “I am leaving! I am leaving” but the fighter still remains.
I’m always going forward toward something, and that something is usually an album, because I like to record. I probably like to record more than I like to write.
