sean wesley wood

men used to sell a good song for a night's drinking; men have been shot dead for singin' the lonesome blues to the wrong gal, sadly men have fallen on knives because the song wasnt enough. but where would we be without that song? where would i be now without the music of those who have gone before? young elliott smith, old mance lipscomb, syd barrett, hank williams;

the people that raised us. that walked us home at 4am brokenhearted; that drove us down the I5 to meet a friend; songs that we plucked out on a beat up guitar on a beach as the sun was setting in the trees.



music is the only thing as precious as silence.



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