A lyricist/composer, I'm opinionated if I care. I appreciate music as art. If I can't sense or believe it, I doubt it's anything but noise. I have an ear for perfect pitch that happens to be in a different key than expected, so I'm retuning an ancient instrument in hopes of fulfilling a childhood dream of learning to play it and an adult fantasy of laying the melody, along with a linguistic legacy that buckles lovers in for a ride to ecstasy, above my own hand-drummed rhythms. My music collection, excluding digital files, numbers over two hundred albums. I rarely remember artists, titles, or albums. But play me a song and I'll tell you how it made love to me, how it somehow again stole my prized virginity. Or I'll tell you how, instead, it raped me of well-deserved serenity by shrilly scraping it's nails across my soul and projectile vomiting a less than fully digested understanding of this, "Music speaks things into existence; it does not scream for acknowledgement of its own."