The Void

I had gotten into the habit of picking up songs as keepsakes, like a bouquet of eternal roses whose petals stay a passionate red and whose thorns still got some fight in them. This was a rose gifted to me along the way. I recorded it months ago in a bathroom with the door closed to block out the loud noises of a busy, lakeside town. I had found myself in a void between a tough goodbye and the unknown after that. 

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