Hey Mr. Billow, why don't cha play me a tune? I hear ya, and I hear she's to blame. Even still, will it offend you if I thank her? Thank her for a cold heart letting loose into the crisp air of silence. Filling the room with the sound of a guitar's deep echo while your heart rolls down your sleeve and onto the laps connected to the ears of your listeners. Funny how tongue-tied you are without the scales, chords, and harmony. It seems so easy when you close your eyes and slowly rock with the vibrations of your own vocal chords, losing yourself in your own inspirations. Excuse my nose, but is it wrong for me to ask? All I want is to know who you are and why. Your wall is beautiful, can I climb it? In the end we're the same. Only you can express yourself in ways that make me feel warm. Call me. Call me. I will be around.
Feel better,
wes.
