music

One, singular note, a voice weary with tobacco, tears and too much booze, and fingers sliding across a discordant guitar: this is music. This is my music. This is my passion, the thing that keeps me writing; possibly because I feel myself every time I hear the echo of that wailing and Waylon voice and that scratchy guitar. It is the thing that moves me to write because the music is beautiful beyond words. And perhaps, that in the end, is what I like so much about the music. It is a confluence of events, a convention, where words are amplified by the beauty of sound, something, despite communication and words' beauty, cannot be replicated in writing.