I want to listen to Bjork at unreasonable levels of volume and feel goosebumps as she sings about never fitting in and that naturally making her fit in because none of us fit it. And I’m thinking about you. I want Moses Somney to bang our my eardrums with the softest vocal performance forcing me to redefine my concept of identity while reconstituting my decimated eardrums. There goes another thought about you. I want to dive into the mania and stare at pictures of you while listening to the roots or Erykah or Jill and sip crown royal on ice though I’m supposed to be on a diet. I want to get drunk off you and be drunk with you and be with you and be in you and finally be seen for who I am because I’ll finally see me through your eyes and this was never about music. It just provides the soundtrack for my want and wonder. How I dream of your rhythm and everything is an echo. Every rift; mimic of the master. Your hands are masterpiece and I — a fan begging to be able to take a listen.