Horse heads tucked away beneath your sheets pigs root in the grass and the goats gently bleat. All is quiet on the farm tucked in the valley and in the small shack you built on the edge of the property, with its round door you painstakingly framed, it it beautiful Barefoot in overalls your day is encompassed with sweet earth and ever ripening carrots it remains is beautiful Armed with an 8 track recorder, a guitar, banjo and mandolin you slowly construct the simple yet elegant notes that speak volumes and leave those who listen wondering where this noise came from. You explain to them the unawares of the answer you try to explain the movement the feeling the science behind the notes they do not understand. Precious few do But thats okay For the few that do it resonates to their core makes them wonder dream appreciate the hours spent and lost. The timelessness, the harmonics, the ever lengthening prose that is engrained within the Like that of a fine wood much goes into the tight construction and to make something truly astounding it takes special care
So you work for a year or two in attempt to skull your way through the still waters of the soul to find the long forgotten island where the compositive chest full of you buried creativity lays One may hope that this place truly exists that somewhere deep inside there is the key to opening the box of your dreams hopes musings To understand there way there one must not look within but outward towards sky The bounty the world prescribes will overflow the chest you find To sit to think an introverted mess a blotched paper with ink