Blistering scales descendingto madness and beyond.Long nights withouta melody, or aplace to hang myhat.Life hurts when thefamiliar things vanish,and love crawls away likea perfect little spider.

On this March night, there'sa beautiful Van Gogh skyhovering outside mybedroom window.Above my maple deskwhere I write this isa Van Gogh self-portrait.The jagged edges andswirls in sea-greenpain moves me.I wait for the coffee to brew.Earthy, dark notes fill the...