Sunday. Worked more on the song in fits and starts all day. Songwriting is often agonizing for me – a truth that I’m not a bit proud of. Agony is the rightful provence of, oh say, General Washington’s starved troops over the bleak New Jersey Winter of 1781. They boiled and ate their boots. How can I ascribe anything like agony to a Sunday spent sitting at a white piano in a heated apartment. Yet I speaketh only troof.

(Sent from my Palm phone.)

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