Most nights, when life allows, I music journal. I just hit record and pour out the day in the most honest way I know. These entries go onto a hard drive, and stay there: a chronological, date stamped account of where I have been and what it was like to be there.

The voices you hear in the background might be your own. Maybe you laid in your bed that night and listened to the rain while I held a mic out my bedroom window. Maybe you were the stranger who played a bent-bugle solo into my laptop on the side of the road, or the bearded heathens who whistled in three-part harmony for me in an alley. Maybe you left me the voicemail that I turned into a violin or you knocked on my door just to see if things were going alright. Maybe you nudged me every day for two months to put this album out. If you don't hear yourself in these stories, listen again. It is all in here, with my gratitude.

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