N. Grandjean

The story is this. The stories are these. The worries are. The hurry, the war, the young and the poor, the only for you is right. And here. For sure. The enormous dramas are perhaps not sensational to the naked eye, they're perhaps simple and plain. I know. I do know how things tend to work. I tried to adjust to that. Pretty much so... I never woke up in the morning having to pinch myself to be convinced of how just brilliant everything went. Growing up very much so on the outside, a true longing grew, an ability to sense and communicate. To study. Needs. Yours and mine. Like that I recognize and experience oceans of drama inside the near and elementary. Introvert adrenelinerushes :) That I tend to hide from you. When parachute doesn't open. When I repeatedly mind you leaving. Me. I am still subdued to outer powers. I've always taken care of you. I insist to talk about it. The experiences wishes that wants us to know our selves. The recognition. The acknowledgement. And that I tend to overrule you. With this at heart and the principal, that I just need to aspire for the naked greatness in the raw underacted and simple, I found myself in front of a computerscreen, with a microphone and a guitar all those nights. With birds singing and an old piano with me. As spring came around and defeated the darkness of winther. I insisted. That they needed to live; the differences I understood we shared. Those I translated and wrote down throughout all this time. My determined belief that I'm not just off key, when I invoke your presence. When I repeatedly tell you, that if you trust I will take good care of you.