… you just need to type 1,200 words about how your piano was probably the only thing you’ll ever truly love in your life, and how all you ever want is to spend almost 20 years caring about anything, anyone else that much. To know every nook and cranny, to know instinctively which notes work together and which ones are dissonant. To spend a lifetime turning to something at your darkest moments, drinking the night away. To immediately recognize and correct a wrong move of the fingers. To leave it behind and miss it every fucking day, and spend every day hoping that it isn’t forever and one day it will be back in the living room, just like it was when you were 4 and toddling around, and 12 and facing the hardest loss of your life, and 21 and settling back into your childhood home after earning a very expensive degree that won’t even help you get a job at Carrabba’s.
Sometimes when you’re wine tipsy and all alone in your very nice apartment in a quaint, historic neighborhood that you’ve fallen head over heels in love with, that you paid for with the money you damn well earned at your amazing job at the company you’ve spent the past year with, you just want to be able to sit down at the end of the day and tell your oldest and dearest friend about it through some Justin Townes Earle songs.
But sometimes you just can’t, because you’ve already downed half a bottle of cab sav and Mom’s house is an hour away. And besides… you’ve had writers block for a while and maybe this is just the kick in the ass you needed to move your fingers over a different set of keys.
