"Pen, meet paper.

"Hello. I'm your mind saying what your voice can't find words for.
I'm the itch in your brain that makes you silent.
I am the containment field waiting for the bomb to blow.
I am the song your mouth can't sing."

. . . a bit of random word vomit I regurgitated a few nights ago, while lamenting my lack of things to write.

I was listening to a friend's guitar composition earlier and heard vocals where none existed. Those vocals extended their hand to words, but the words were just out of reach. . .

The rain was nice today. The parts I got to enjoy, anyway. Sometimes I wish I lived in a more rural area; I feel I'd appreciate it more.

. . . I just realized that I've been playing a segment of Draa's composition wrong. Dammit.

I've decided that "[The] Quiet Girl and The Riot" will either be the name of my two-person band or the title of one of our CDs.

Lately, I feel like people have been avoiding me. Or have I been avoiding them. . .?

Don't mind my ramblings. The music does such odd things to my mind. . .