MOG

To fall asleep, I read of wars: young and bleeding boys in German trenches, soul-deep mud in the Falais Gap. These troubles that so far exceed my own, I could blush. I worry about being broke, I flail to protect my stakes from those who would violently unearth them. Some days, feeding myself as a writer seems as likely as becoming an acrobat. That one can churn for hours on end.

But on no upcoming night will I sleep in a frozen wood, bent over boot & rifle, praying for life, nor, eyes tight, for deliverance.

As I contrast my own alert midnight to this, I wonder where to find context for simpler heartache & uncertainty. Where to find the howl, the voice for wounds fatal only to a sense of self-worth?

If you're lost on this quest tonight, stop here. Will Oldham's vocals cling next to us on the modern ledge; the uneven tones crack & raggedly cry out for the cover we seek. On new days, we'll let his lyrics articulate our thoughts - for now, the very sound will tell of our safe but fevered skin.