Cabin days are here again. Back to where we can zone out the external world. Backwards down into our muddled minds to sort through songs and their ultimate yard sale shapes.  

Yes. It’s time to bring another album to life. And then hopefully put it to bed. The constantly recurring album cycles are like small lives inside of lives. Or relationships. Or tours.

Or seasons.

Even though it’s not officially winter, it feels it. Wordless cartoon clouds materialize when I breathe, naked hands cannot resist hugging one another.

And still, I hear echos of an earlier fall, even all the way back to the end of summer. The woods are filled with fur and feather. The pines creak barely perceptible lyrics from almost a hundred feet overhead, up above the last tough clusters of green.

It’s two-bit time travel in the back of my brains, back to our last tour with Rocky and the unbreakable crew.

This morning before we started recording, I got rid of the golden chair made for me by my bandmates. It was beautiful while it lasted, while it was necessary. But I stand when I sing now. And when I slip and fall in the forest alone, it doesn’t even make a sound.