Who are you? asked the man with enormous white wings. It was Wednesday, and the rain had finally stopped. Me. And what is that you carry? My guitar. And what does it do? It makes music. Spendid! On its own? No, I play it. By itself? No, with my words and my voice. Marvelous. Are you good? I like to think yes. I put me into them. And I love it. And I am a good me, so, yes. I like it. And what do you play about? About it all-my life, my loves, my friends, my foes. Your life, your loves, your friends, your foes. And have you always known music? Since I can remember, an inherited love I suppose. And do you play for love or a living. Love in this life, a living in the next. And where do you play? Wherever the train stops next.
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