I burned the CD to my hard drive. Then I made three copies. One for my daughter, for when she’s old enough to understand what a dream looks like before it becomes a regret. One for my ex-wife, because she once asked if I ever made anything beautiful, and I lied and said no.
The feedback loop screamed through the laptop’s tinny speakers. Then my younger voice, thin and hungry and so terrifyingly alive: “Asphalt stains on your party dress…” rock band songs 1
It never answered. But for forty-seven minutes and twelve seconds, it listened. I burned the CD to my hard drive
But fame never came. Instead came thirty-three years, a divorce, a mortgage, a child who thinks my guitar is “a weird decoration.” I stopped writing songs somewhere around the time I started writing performance reviews. The calluses on my fingers softened. The voice that once screamed about matches and rain now gently asks people to hold for the next available representative. One for my ex-wife, because she once asked