I’ve picked up my guitar again. My poor guitar (I nearly wrote ‘instrument,’ but thought better of it) had forgotten what it was like to be held fondly like a delicate, new-born babe. And then caressed like a ... something quite different (although sort of connected... Shut up. OK.) Feel free to complete the sentence.
Ahem. So, now the tips of my fingers are sore. It’s been a long time. It isn’t the only thing that's been a long time. And another thing I can’t do (although 'can't' is used in a different sense, you understand) is write lyrics like the ones I append below, neither can I sing like some ethereal being from another realm. You’ll have to go to the bottom of the playlist for that pleasure.
Things like this send me scooting down a road that had become unfamiliar.
You’ll remember me when the west wind moves
Among the fields of barley,
And you can tell the sun in his jealous sky
When we walked in fields of gold.
So she took her love for to gaze awhile
Among the fields of barley.
In his arms she fell as her hair came down,
Among the fields of gold
Will you stay with me?
Will you be my love?
Among the fields of barley?
Look, I’m opening up here, so don’t snigger! I know – if I were any softer I would be reduced to a pool of viscous liquid slurping aimlessly around my office floor. Hateful, isn’t it? I always wanted to be a lumberjack.
Oh, I did that one a few months ago.
Jeffrey’s mind is in a funny place. So sympathise!
Mad, bad and impossible to know. Yeah, right.
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