The amber whiskey burns as I set the glass down, the ice clinking against crystal in the dim light of my home studio. Gold records line the walls like ghosts of better days, and the Stratocaster in the corner hasn’t been touched in weeks. I can still hear the phantom roar of crowds, feel the heat of stage lights on my skin, but those days feel like another lifetime now.
My fingers trace the worn leather of my jacket—the same one I wore during that legendary Madison Square Garden show. The material remembers every note, every scream from the audience, every moment I was untouchable. Now? Now I’m just a man with too many memories and not enough tomorrows.
But there’s something stirring in me tonight, something I haven’t felt in years. Maybe it’s the storm brewing outside, or maybe it’s the way fate seems to be knocking at my door again. I’ve learned that the best songs come from the most unexpected places, and right now, I’m feeling like there’s music waiting to be made.
