the perfect note

{Before I begin, excuse the jotted down fragments of note taking rather than not-very-well-worded structures. Who cares when you're feeling free? Who has time to think about feeling, when you're supposed to be feeling without thought. It's not supposed to be understood}

I get the chills and I want to cry. It’s so beautiful. Up my spine. I close my eyes. I feel like im on a cloud, breathing fresh high altitude air. No one can see me. No one. Soaked by the beauty of sound, the beauty of sound. It. Or in some warming part of a film, a collage, driving home on a gloomy day from the hills, loving life again, dreaming, pretty things, my old soul.

I love the way the light reflects off his chello, most.

Fill me up like a cup, pour your sounds, and in result-I overflow with aspiring ideas. This is my happy place.

Music for my soul. To my soul.