Monthly Archives: August 2012

Honored to be Honored

Oh, Wandering Voiceless, how very kind of you. I discovered, this morning, that this very charismatic blogger, nominated the Insanity Blog for the Reader Appreciation Award. I accept this nomination with a grin, and a warm heart. Thank you, thank you – thank you very much (Yes, I said that like Elvis).

Now, down to business: there are rules to be followed upon being nominated. Rules, some of which, I failed to follow once after a previous nomination. The rules are:

1.  Thank the person who nominated you and include a link to their site.

2.  Nominate other people (you choose how many–whatever makes you happy).

3.  Write some bad ass things about yourself. 

In accordance with the rules:

1.  Please see initial, heartfelt, first paragraph – located above. Please scroll.

2. My nominations are:

May I nominate the blogger who nominated me? Well, I don’t see any small print that indicates otherwise, so my first nomination goes to: Wandering Voiceless. A thinker after my own thoughts. A joy.

 The Boy With A Hat. Yummy thinking, at least yummy to this writer.

Notes From a She-Hermit or ‘Being Mental and Loving It’. By Dotty Headbanger. Just pure enjoyment. Plain and simple. If you don’t believe me, head to Dotty’s Collected Profanities and Insults page.

 Jason’s Jukebox. A nice, nice place to mull around.

 Cristian Mihai. A writer’s refuge.

3.  I don’t know if the world is ready for me to reveal what I’m about to reveal. My bad-assness, my secrets finally spoken, my weird flag allowed to flap free in the wind. But I’m going to do it anyway:

Every morning, without fail, I burn my steel-cut oats. I set them to slow simmer, then completely forget about them until I smell something odd.

I’m terrible with names, and often fail to listen to what’s being said after an introduction as I’m quietly repeating the person’s name in my head; Felicia, Felicia…Feleeeshhaa.

I’m a creature of habit. If ever my brain were dropped on the floor during a routine lobotomy, my body (due to years of habitual use), would carry on quite nicely without anyone being the wiser.

I’m an inventor. Don’t ask of what. I have no intentions of telling.

I write not only because I want to, but because I have to.

I pull my Band-Aids off  – fast, real fast.

If I could survive on dark chocolate, caramel, oats, red wine and coffee – I would.

I see myself in a completely different light than everyone else sees me.

If I could possess one superhuman, superhero capability it would be the Cloak of Invisibility. Oh, the places I would go…

I’m a third generation Harley rider.

I was born on the Virgo/Libra cusp – astrologically speaking, I’m a force to reckon with.

I could never blatantly kill someone. Not for fear of moral issues or spiritual repercussions. But for fear that one small particulate found under special lightning will lead the fuzz right to my door. Damn that CSI.

In my senior year of high school, I was once accused of being a Satanist.

I find the smell of nature to be nearly intoxicating.

I gasp if my pants accidentally brush up against a public toilet.

According to the FDA, I consume more than the recommended allowance of tuna per week, per my body weight. It seems if the drugs, sex and rock n’ roll don’t do me in – tuna will.

I believe in miracles, but I don’t believe in Santa.

Well there ya’ go, folks. Tidbits and factoids. A few things you may or may not have already known about me. One thing, I can not go without saying however. As its imperative that you understand – I value my readers more than you know. A review by a critic is one thing, a review by a reader, one much like me, is what makes my heart sing. To know that someone let their eyes scan upon my words, the working’s of my mind, for a few minutes or a few days – well, that’s what this writer’s journey is all about. Thank you for that – truly. My novels and books are all stories spun around others. Yes, there is always me entwined. However, this little blog, is the story of me. Thank you for stopping by. Every nomination, like, share, reblog and scan is appreciated.


The Full Spectrum Mind

There’s a bit of a misconception regarding those who believe differently and see through optimistic eyes. And that misguided assumption, is that they have a foolish mind.

If someone wants to believe in the power of something other than what’s been derived from critical thinking, they are often seen as one who’s easily swayed by whim and folly. If one sees the divinity in a tree and wants only to preserve it, they are seen as passive. If someone values the power of the soul, the earth, the mind and the energy that dwells in all things, they are written off as quacks.

The true indicator of intelligence is one who’s unafraid to see the world through a broadened view; never ruling out the many possibilities that live beyond what has been proven and analyzed thus far. Even a scientist knows that conclusive findings are limited to the invention of tools used to discover the findings. When a new tool is created, one that surpasses its predecessor, then new conclusive findings are gathered – this cycle will never end, as there will always be more waiting to be discovered. What is true with science, and the far-reaching galaxies, is also true with life. All knowledge is limited to what we allow as possible. The greatest researchers in history knew: anything is possible.

And yet, if that same openness is taken into our conversations, one is easily scorned and treated as the fool for allowing their thoughts to flutter so loosely beyond the accepted norm. It is the smart mind that knows nothing new is discovered, nothing new is learned, unless the mind flutters into new territory. I find it interesting when listening to those that quickly render something impossible. Misguided, they feel they’re flexing their wisdom and personal power by limiting the situation and others. I don’t care if someone hugs trees or is a captain of industry, has a seat in public office or sits high upon a mountain in meditation – within all of these – there are the strong-minded and the weak-minded. The man tilling the soil can, and often does, possess the same intellectual mind as the man turning pages in a University library. The mind is powerful, when allowed. Many just refrain from the – allowing.

Those with a broad mind tend to keep their beliefs and opinions held close to their chest as they’re often scorned. But they aren’t scorned by those with keen intellects. They are scorned by those who’s minds are too weak to grapple with the possibility of new information. Like the child that won’t release their mother’s hand, those with a closed mind hold on too tight to only the knowledge that feels safe; they don’t want to go beyond the safety of primary colors.

Fear of knowledge is by far worse than limited knowledge. Presuming to know the answer, without hearing all the possibilities, is by far worse than never having an answer at all. Those who aren’t afraid to think expansive thoughts, are not feeble, nor passive. Those who hold true to their own intrinsic knowledge are mightier than those who rely upon the knowledge of others.


Post written to Alabama Shakes – Hold On

Born Sinner

I remember when I received the news. It was early, one Sunday morning, I was still in my pink flannel nightgown, the one with white lace trim. And if memory serves, I was playing with paper dolls. I was five, and  feeling pretty good about myself until I heard the man on the TV declare that we’re all born sinners.

I couldn’t imagine how such a thing could be true. I was young but I knew the basics: Jesus was a really important fella, and God was even more important than he. I also knew if I made God angry, there’d be hell to pay – literally.

But now this? I’d only just gotten here. How could this have happened? I hadn’t even called one person a bad name, nor pocketed one unpaid for candy bar, and yet somehow I had already sinned. My mind reeled. How did a sin manage to sneak into my life without me even noticing? The thought made me wonder if any other sins had snuck into my life without me noticing. I felt doomed. If I didn’t fix things, I’d land in the place where bad people go: h-e-double hockey sticks. I was a marked woman. We were all marked from the get go. At least that’s what the man on TV said.

The world suddenly felt complicated. I went from feeling good about myself to feeling bad. I was told we were made in God’s image. But if we were born sinners, then wouldn’t that mean God was a sinner as well. Or so this was how I posed the question years later to my mother. She didn’t have any real answers. I remember her saying something about sex and something about Adam and Eve. My mind reeled even more. But God created Adam and Eve and gave them free will. God also created sex: the act, the creation that comes afterward, the whole kit and kaboodle. How could any of it be deemed a sin? And by whom? Who decided this? And why was I to blame for something someone else did? My mother listened to a litany of questions when I was a preteen. But I needed things to make sense. And thus my research of theology began. I needed answers. I didn’t like the concept that I had done something wrong, and should feel bad if I didn’t adhere to someone else’s guidelines to set it right.

After many years, and much research, I found my own religion. My religion is the one that rests within my soul. I decided a long time ago that if I was made in God’s image, then I was just fine the way I was – as was God. There have been quite a few gifted teachers that have walked this earth; their words spoken to help guide and instruct; words, I feel, that have been terribly maligned and twisted to suit the needs of others. Whenever someone has a vested interest in my beliefs or the beliefs of others, I question their words. To that end, I often question myself. Doing so is how I keep myself on the right road. But the road is one I engineer and create. I really don’t believe in sin. If I did I’d say it should be a sin to force one’s beliefs upon another. We aren’t all on the same journey. We aren’t all walking toward the same end. There isn’t one, right way. The way is for us to decide. Finding the way is why we are here.

The threat of hell can’t be used to frighten me anymore, the way it was when I was a child. Because as I’ve grown I realized that hell is not a destination, it’s a state of mind and reality many  of us have lived through during our lifetime. I don’t need to be judged by anyone, but me. And if pointing out the destructive nature inherent to this act of condemning someone as a sinner, someone who emerged due to the  miracle of childbirth – then call me a sinner.


Blog written to, Itchin on a Photograph by Grouplove

Speaking My Language

There are nearly 7,000 different languages spoken in the world today. According to the Ethnologue, the encyclopedic reference of known languages, this number translates into about one language for every 862,000 people on earth. So many different verbal expressions. Yet, there is one language universal to all, and that is the language of the soul.

Feelings are the way the soul communicates. And it does so with two absolute and sovereign emotions: love and fear. All other emotions fall under one of these two life altering and life dictating emotions.

When operating under the emotion of love, the soul opens, expands and thusly, so does one’s mind; like a flower, nourished and exposed to the sun – the person as a whole blossoms. The opposite is true when operating under fear; all emotional faculties withdraw; the mind shuts down, the heart closes. The person as a whole wants to hide.

I’ve been thinking a great deal about these two emotions as of late. The one thing that strikes hard against my heart upon the thought, is how due to the vulnerability of love, rarely is it fully expressed. Like a weed growing aside the flower, with roots deep and overpowering, fear sits too close to love. Once we feel and give our love, fear follows. Fear of rejection, fear of approval, fear of judgement, fear of abandonment. Fear does all it can to choke the life from love. And it often succeeds.

In an attempt to protect ourselves from a pain that hasn’t yet arrived, many project outward their fears. Things that haven’t yet happened, are made tangible and forced into reality, long before they’ve had a chance to arrive of their own accord. If left alone, if left unencumbered, I have to wonder if those fearful things would’ve come to light. Loving under the guise of fear is much like getting into one’s car, heading toward one’s paradise, yet stopping half way for concern of what things might look like once arriving. It’s like standing on stage, ready to sing one’s song of a lifetime, yet only singing it half way for fear of not hitting the high note.

I don’t want to love half way. I don’t want to live half way. I’ve made a conscious decision over these last few months to either love and live fully, or not at all. If I can’t love without fear creeping in and shading my perception, then the problem rests solely with me. Imagine what life would be like if everyone lived without fear. They would give freely, never fearing their own scarcity. They would give attention to others, never fearing abandonment. Whether we understand it or not, the language of the soul is the language that moves us all. Fear sits on the polar opposite end of love. Their commonality is in their power.


Written to Trembling Hands by The Temper Trap

Last Bit of Energy

I have a slew of shortcomings – some – more serious than others. One of those many shortcomings has intensified over the course of the last week. Embarrassingly, I must confess to spending a great deal of my energy draining the last drop of juice (scientific term), from batteries.

At present, the batteries in my toothbrush and television remote are stretching the boundaries of electrical feasibility and common-sense expectation. Powered by what has to be only electrical vapors, my toothbrush now intermittently cuts out while using it. I whack the toothbrush on the bathroom counter hoping to jar loose the last remaining particle of chemical energy stored inside. And while using the TV remote, I’ve now taken to wielding my arm around wildly while pressing brutishly on the buttons. Hand to God – I’ve met with some success using both of these methods.

It’s not just that the batteries are expensive. Its more than that. Although, I will say, I’m not fond of dropping a small fortune on a small, but heavy, bag of batteries. But that’s not it. The problem is I don’t care for the whole process of replacing the batteries.  Best case scenario: one good pop and the little trap-door opens, the old batteries tumble onto the floor or they get pried from their little cocoon with my fingernail. Worst case scenario: discovering that dreaded, almost invisible screw that seals the battery door closed, and subsequently, impenetrable to those that do not have, readily available, an itsy bitsy screwdriver.

I would think I’d be eager to swap out the old batteries. The thrust of life that surges through the toothbrush once its humming on fully loaded batteries is reason enough to prematurely change them. But no. I patiently wait, allowing time for a slow, agonizing death. Finally, once the battery has coughed up its last spittle of energy, I reluctantly wriggle the cap from the bottom of the toothbrush. Taking the appropriate time to clean the dried toothpaste from places near impossible for it to travel, I replace the batteries (placing them upside down before placing them right side up), then beat the tar out of the toothbrush for about ten minutes in an attempt to get the cap back on. After utilizing Hercules-like strength, I finally succeed; pushing the button, the brush springs to life.

I should try, for a while, living life fully charged. Doing so would require breaking some well ingrained bad habits, but I think it would be worth a try. It seems though, I would rather waste my energy, which is better used for other pursuits, than (God forbid), waste the few drops of energy left in a battery about the size of my pinky. Knowing this about myself though – I think I’m going to change my ways.


Cool, Clean Water

I’m not exactly certain who’s to blame in its entirety – if anyone. But there’s been a shift over time, and it’s not for the better. Truthfulness is no longer valued, and treated as the necessity of life it once was. I can’t say this is a world-wide pandemic, as I haven’t trekked the globe to find out. But like contaminated water, it’s a crisis that’s seeping across this side of the world.

There was a time, a long time ago, when one would rather shorten their life-span than throw a fib, lie or any other half truth, toward another.

I have to believe that the media is partially to blame for this moral decline. Our world is inundated with a lack of factual representation. And from that we’ve become numb to it; it’s become the accepted norm. And thus, it seems, the norm in our personal lives as well. It’s a terrible state of affairs. Ranging from the benign fib told to free one from the telephone or a lie that is toxic by content – all possess a certain amount of ill-will and lack of emotional and moral fortitude. I know. I know. Everyone lies. And some are insignificant. When one fibs and says dinner was sublime when really it soured their mouth upon every bite – then the lie is generated from a place of love and kindness. Feelings have been spared. And if anything, the one casting the lie is the one that suffers. But they do so with loving intent.

I’m not too concerned with that side of the disingenuous coin. I’m concerned with the other side and how it’s becoming common place. Those who dole out untruths become immune to their own words; the moral ping they used to feel within their heart upon being insincere becomes calloused. When I’m told something that is illuminated even lightly with insincerity something inside pricks at my heart. I take notice. Generally, I never alert the one on the other end. Instead, I merely begin logging each occurrence. My hope is that there won’t be any more. But if it becomes routine, I’m eventually forced to pull away. I deserve better. Everyone deserves better.

Love and honesty go hand in hand. One can’t exist without the other. This goes for friendships, romantic relationships and all points in between. In the same way that we, as a nation, have come to realize our government lies to us continually due to thinking very little of us – the same holds true for anyone that lies; the neighbor, our cousin, and most of all the one that holds our heart.

At times dishonesty seems easier; the path of least resistance. But that is short-sighted thinking. In the moment, it may seem alright. However, our moral fortitude is a lot like a pool of water. Instinctually, it searches for the easiest path, and if allowed to stray repeatedly it eventually spreads itself too thin, dries up and nothing is left. And thus is the condition of the human mind when moral strength isn’t employed to keep it held in place. In the end nothing is left from which to draw upon. Our words and gestures become as empty and meaningless as a glass of dust offered to a parched soul. It’s best to keep one’s well-house of integrity contained; the walls held firmly in place; by doing so the person as a whole is made stronger. Our words then, have the power to not only replenish ourselves but also replenish others.

The Smell of Paper

I won’t argue it – media is quickly turning paperless.

My hope is that it never goes 100% paperless. I realize all of the many advantages of forgoing the traditional paper forms of publication. I like to save trees just as much as the next guy. I also like to reduce the waste caused by all those old magazines and newspapers that sit in the corner; twice read and dusty. I’m a sensible person, for the most part.

Maybe its the fact that I stare at a computer screen all day that makes the idea of viewing magazines, perusing catalogues and reading books in the same way seem a bit like I’m never stepping away from my work. Instead, the same eye-blurring glow that I view all day while working, shines at my eyes while I’m relaxing. I can’t say I’m very fond of that idea.

I enjoy sitting with a hot cup of something while flipping through a catalogue. I dog-ear the pages with items I’m serious about. I also like the colorful pages of the two small quirky catalogues I buy Christmas gifts from each year. In fact, I save these catalogues. I take them with me, so I will have something enjoyable to look at while I wait for my daughter while she’s in dance class.

I also like being able to escape into the pages of a thick novel while curled in bed. With no glow from a computer screen, my eyes are nourished by the vitamins that feed my soul: ink and paper. There will never be anything that compares to the feeling of holding an entire story in my hands. I like its weight. I enjoy knowing I get to ride along with the characters for quite some time; evidenced by the hundreds of 6×9 sheets of bounded paper I’m blessed to hold in my hands.

I know these books are a chore to lug around. And I admit they’re no fun to carry while traveling. But nothing beats the sight of them on my bed as they patiently await my return. To me they signify something profound. I still have the first book that was given to me: Little Women. And that was the first book wherein the author’s name rested on the tip of my tongue just as prominently as did its title. I looked at the novel, printed in the late 1800’s, with amazement. Within my mind, Louisa May Alcott was equal to, if not greater than, any celebrity or rock star. Holding that novel in my hands, I knew I too wanted to be a great novelist.

From that day, my love affair with old novels and their author’s began. I cherish the fact that these novels, written when books were the main form of entertainment and escape, were written without a great deal of limitation regarding size. Now, a commercial publishing house dismisses a manuscript with more than 80,000 words as they’re too costly to print and, more importantly, they feel the readers of today’s world don’t want to pick up a book of that size. I was told, people want a quick read. That may be true of some. But if the story is good, that same reader will be sad when they turn the last page. If the author did their job well, the reader will be left wishing they had more time with the characters. And thus, a larger book.

I’m only 42 and yet I feel a bit old. I appreciate and welcome all of the advances technology has to offer. In fact, my book is also available as an e-book. If offering my book electronically enables more people to read it, and opens up the door to reaching a larger audience then I’m all for it. But in my soul, I dread the decline of printed media. I like greeting cards that come in the mail, and a stack of books next to my bed. If all I had was a candle, I could still jump into the lives that live in those books and run away for a while. Not to mention, the glorious smell of paper. And I like that.


Turning the Car Around

What if the mechanisms of life are much like that of a radio. I don’t mean today’s radio, with receivers that lock in satellite radio, and scan until finding a crystal clear station. I’m referring to the radios of old, with one knob, requiring a human hand.

The radios I grew up with required a bit of skill too. The principles of operation were quite simple: turn knob until desired station was found, adjust gently until no static is heard. Finding the right signal took a bit of navigating, repositioning of the radio and spinning the long antennae in numerous directions before getting it – just right. Sometimes antennas would become mangled and break; engineering skill and tin foil were then employed. I kind of think that’s a bit how life works as well.

Many of us go about our lives tuned to the wrong frequency – one they don’t truly enjoy. A person may instinctively come alive when tuned-in just so. But instead of adjusting their lives, their thoughts and their circumstances to receive the right radio wave that transmits the genre they resonate with, they allow their dial to sit passively on talk radio instead. We do this for many reasons: we didn’t realize we had the ability to control our lives and the figurative music to which we surround ourself. The right frequency involves more effort than we feel we can extend. And, oddly enough, the talk radio station, or whatever metaphoric station that doesn’t appeal to us, generally carries the stronger signal, found with very little effort.

For many of us, early on, we wiggled the knob just right. We found that sliver on the dial, the sweet spot where our favorite station could be heard, but bumped the antennae or it turned to static once our car headed in a different direction. Instead of turning the car around, we gave up, and began listening to the only station that came in. This is true with life.

Instead of working hard to tap into the right frequency that brings us happiness, we keep turning in the wrong direction. Instead of filling our lives with joy, we go about our days inundated with the sound of a life that doesn’t put a spring in our step, and doesn’t make us sing. If a talk radio life brings happiness then set the dial accordingly, and enjoy, enjoy, enjoy. But if one wants only to hear classical music they need to honor themselves, and this journey they’re on, by carefully tuning the dial and adjusting their course so the signal comes in loud and clear. My life, and the radio frequency by which I want to live, isn’t easily found on the radio. It’s singular to me. In fact, like many good stations, I stumbled upon it by chance. While searching carefully, rolling the knob left and right, I caught a blip on the dial a long time ago. And to this day I keep adjusting and adjusting until the signal becomes stronger. At times I notice the music, the life, I enjoy can’t be easily heard anymore. Then I realize I inadvertently turned my car, my life, in the wrong direction. It takes a bit of work to make things right again; often requiring an illegal U-turn along the way. But I don’t care. I just know that I need to get back to where the signal is the strongest, with no static, and no interference.

If things don’t sound right; your life doesn’t make you sing. Check your dial. You might need to readjust it again.



For the most part, no one sees into our hearts and minds. No one sees all that we have endured, and are still enduring. Those who wear their drama like a Broadway production never draw my eye, nor my emotion. My eye falls onto those that, like me, keep their drama tucked behind the curtain. And rarely do I let anyone peek backstage.

Of course, no one can weep at my struggle or applaud my achievements when all things are kept out of view. I don’t plan on changing my ways, however. I’m soon to be 43 and this is the method that has kept me in tact and has gotten me this far – so its the method that will most likely accompany me till my final day.

We all fall apart though. Sometimes with a loved one by our side – if we are fortunate. But often, its when alone. And at times, those like me, wonder if anyone has ever noticed. If anyone has watched and taken account of how we’ve always chosen strength instead of revenge. Kindness instead of cruelty, and that we’ve given when quite sure we had nothing left to give.

In 1970, Dave Richardson wrote a song after watching a young nurse struggle with grief after losing two patients. She was exhausted, but gave all she had. The death had nothing to do with her, yet the loss touched her deeply. She felt the pain, even though she did not inflict it, nor cause it. To feel it, the pain does not have to be that of our own. And often, that’s the most painful kind. The song he wrote was: Wildflower.

To the women I know and those I don’t, that always find a bit more love to give, even when receiving none; who extend a hand, even when no one has reached for theirs; who smile while crying inside – I dedicate this song. You are strong. You are beautiful, and you are not alone.



She’s faced the hardest times
you can imagine
and many times her eyes
fought back the tears
and when her youthful world
was about to fall in
each time her slender shoulders
bore the weight of all her fears
and the song that no one hears
still rings in midnight silence
in her ears
Let her cry
for she’s a lady
let her dream
for she’s a child
let the rain fall down upon her
she’s a free and gentle flower
growing wild

And if by chance that I
should hold her
let me hold her
for a time
and if allowed but one possession
I will pick her from the garden
to be mine

Be careful how you touch her
for she’ll awaken
for sleep’s the only freedom
that she knows
and when you look into her eyes
you won’t believe
the way she’s always payin’
for a debt she never owes
and the silent wind still blows
that only she can hear
and so she goes

All rights reserved

Have a wonderful weekend. And even when you think no one does – please know, someone noticed.


Inspired and written to: Wildflower by Skylark

Stronger Than You Think

Some people are stronger than others – this is obvious. But I have to wonder what it is that creates this internal, emotional fortitude in one but not the other.

Maybe one’s character can’t develop unless put to the challenge. I’d say that were true; noting all those that have risen from adversity to become awe-inspiring individuals. Yet, for every one of those, there are ten or more coming from the same adversity that didn’t develop in the same way. Two people, cornered with the same problem; one braces and stands tall; the other squirrels around, lashes out and does every fear based absurd action  possible.

Perhaps conditions, good or bad, have little to do with one’s internal strength. Instead, there’s something beyond the visible that holds the answer.

I’m more inclined to believe the latter, as I’ve watched two seemingly similar people, with similar upbringing and lifestyles, respond in contrast to the same issue. One is firm, while the other crumbles. I suppose the best of the lot would be those already in tune with their inner strength, that went on to endure an uneasy road; the adversity only adding to their emotional muscle.

My father, the wonderful yet troubled man that he was, struggled unmercifully to be strong. His knee jerk reaction to life was to feel despair. And yet, I see so many that have gone through far worse than the disappointing life my father was given. Nazi camp survivors, rape victims, those who’ve had everything brutally ripped from their lives; within those groups, are a few that grew in strength even at the hand of such atrocity.

As hard as my life has been at times, I’ve never felt I could complain, as others have endured far worse. The human spirit, I feel, is what gives us our strength. We all have it. Some tap into it, others fail to know they even have this divine well-house of personal strength and operate solely using their external, physical and mental senses and abilities. There’s a line from a song that describes the power of the inner spirit well: “It’s my turn, this soul won’t burn, so throw me into the fire.” The part of us that doesn’t burn and never changes; the part of us that sits above the fear, the worry, the insecurity – it is there – where our strength can be found. But to go there, one has to set aside all the emotions that make up so much of who we are. I tap into that place often. I’m having to tap into it right now. At times I wonder if it will get tapped out. But so far, it seems to be just as strong as it’s always been.


Written to: These Days by Foo Fighters