Well, what do I have to say that I'd want to talk about?
So very much. What's the point?
The listening, the adulation, the clarity, the finality?
Nonexistent in one's sensibilities. That's been the recurring theme nowadays.
Self-decided perception and designation. What else do I have?
It's all a bit like faith and lunacy.
Everything else is short-sighted esotericism or complexity for its own sake.
I know little of the goings-on and their meaning.
You are what you hold on to. All else is fleeting and the fear thereof.
Though it all has some end. That is the great humorous prayer.
The measurement of one's obstinate feelings toward something creates grandeur and cherishment.
The belief that if you hold it till the dying breath. Whether that's tomorrow or in a pittance of eighty years.
You created sanctity.
What makes any breath any better than the last?
To a million held breaths and a million more wasted.

Anyways, I know all to well what wrote this, and this is my dedication to it:
Sleepless nights wrote this, long pondering of obsessive intrusions wrote this, desire for transience wrote this,
fear wrote this, optimism wrote this, begging and bravado wrote this, tenacity and weakness wrote this,
reverence wrote this, doubt wrote this, the muddiness of memory's words wrote this, and the incisive keening of your eyes wrote this,
God wrote this, I wrote this,
Or better yet…
I / it made me write this.

Who knows anymore.

Labor of Love
Composed by Travis Sherwood

Strings performed by: Ensemble del Vento Sereno & Nathan Wolkstein

Saxophone by: A. Zvagelsky

Harp by: Bridget Jackson