I have never found the words to perfectly express that feeling that exists in the chill dark morning, when the world hovers between the seasons. When the air is a cool cloth on the skin, tempering the warmth that spreads like brandy through the arteries of life. I have sat so many times as the grainy indigo evaporates into the morning, have looked up as if I could see the wind, as if the sky held the words I so longed to pour onto the paper, like liquid fire. This morning, it rests so quietly upon me, this nameless feeling, that I am loathe to give to the light. And through each movement I hear music, as if my day has synchronized itself to the secret longing of the song. 

I desire to play, to write, to release into the music that is running through my head. And yet I am restless, like the moon wandering across the ocean, I cannot seem to focus my vision enough to sit in this space. I am thinking only of the music being made thousands of km away in Toronto...how I wish I were there right now as the violin tracks are being laid for my album...

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