I can definitely feel it. My sore, road-worn ankles and fatigued fingers. Extending beyond boundaries with this effort. I can feel a hollow point in my tiny bed. Listening party. Girls to talk to. Laying down bass tracks and realizing that I saw the potential although I know less than ten people in the city. I love you guys but I love to branch out. Do things. Do music. The only way to get good is to practice.
I feel it somewhere. Pulsing for a late night high. Kicked the habit. Good riddance. I am a vocalist now. More so now than ever. I was told I have great tone and this is fantastic news. Give me the advice. Relax a bit.
A bit brain dead from all of the recording. Entire band stayed through the bit.
* * * *
The night of. The living dead. We are on a budget with our minds. No time constraints my god. Full involvement in the studio. Chewing on water bottle. Only minor involvement with any outside sources. Walk across the street and lie about a cross walk. Warn of curbs. Witness the purchaser of different strands of marijuana. A bogus security guard like the neighborhood watch. Jokes in green outfits. Re-visit guitar riffs and parts. Experimental placement of microphones. Bipolar dog tries to consume some whiskey. Attack and bark at me. Then be gentle. To my ears oh lord a breeze. Heaven bound and haunted. Asking something for nothing. Put a room mic in a broom closet. Hold your head up. (Electric guitar kits, fun and easy to build.) Swat away mosquitoes from sun burns. drinking whiskey in the recording studio. I did not make them drinks. I brought them drinks and ice. A nice gesture. Take me a minute. Coke or sparkling water. Cracks in the pavement. In the flesh. Kindred spirits of west coast cities. We need guidance of a kind or another. Needy dog barks for attention. Turn the lights down low so he forget we were in here. In the darkness. Recording ourselves
