There’s something about a cloudless, eighty degree evening that makes the careening anvil of life sorta rubbery and unobjectionable, and so I find myself sipping tequila over ice and writing songs, for no reason other than connecting whatever melodies and chords might be into that sorta thing.

Lyrics aren’t coming yet, which is ok - when I force things, I get a tad self-indulgent with the ol’ diction, so I’m content slinging glorious gibberish until that one word, that one phrase, pops up for air. 

It can take hours, but I’m happy putting in the time, self-soothing through meandering creativity, giving myself permission to sit beneath whispering trees, to grieve, and trust that, when things are unfolding as they should, they’re emphatically puzzling.