It’s true. This thing’s got no rhythm or rhyme. Just a rap. Or a laugh. But finally picking up wherever it left last, catching the wind in an hour glass. This won’t be poetic, I promise. Just maybe, it might. It’s creative insight, in stride, running around the writer’s mind and placed note by note into sheet music storyboard, swirling in the blue–LIKE JAZZ–with a Catchbox microphone, passing around the listening until we’re tapped out, breathless from our stories. This is messy, jagged even, raggedy around the worn edges. It’s all good, people, I’ve got an “it’s-all-up-here-strategy.” Not-at-all proven and certifiably fun, it’s ridiculously crazy to see. Me, tap-tapping letters to the beat, heart or otherwise. Just a little bit shy. I’m the Piano Woman playing away for an audience of one, dancing at the desk translating from the gray what matters. White noise to white space, it’s a race you’ll never catch. I’m back on the write track. Thank God. An inadequate actor who can’t play pretend. Words, on the other hand, can make you believe. That’s fire. A feeling that always trends. It’s just a riff, folks. Maybe even a raff. A short series of chords, they give me a good laugh.