Open. One.
Would you treat me any different if I were there?
Would it be different if this wasn't the internet?
Would you stand in the rain and stare in the clouds?
Stranded thoughts at strange times of the day, and in the middle of the night, in foreign cities driving through towns in vans with too many friends who are too asleep and gathering a "sick of eachother" feeling, silenced only by the fact that there are too many of us total to be upset. And so be the life of a singer in a band of people varying from five to fifteen, depending on the day. A ride from the getgo, this whole thing. Nothing too special, just friends playing with friends and making a pretty penny to keep things running to ensure life after death in ways that had never seemed possible during the avenues wherebe we've fallen into eachother.
Life has a strange way of making friends and happy memories where there would have normally been shoe prints and pushbrooms. Europe has a differently strange way of making me more artistic and silent than normal.