Every singer knows the moment: the feeling is enormous and the vocabulary is empty. You stand at the microphone with something the size of weather inside you, and all you have are vowels.
Good. That is exactly where songs begin. In our rooms we have a rule — when words fail, you sing anyway. Hum it. Siren it. Let the melody carry what the sentence cannot. Nine times out of ten, the lyric arrives a week later, chasing the tune you found when you stopped trying to explain.
Midnight Air was written this way: three weeks of wordless humming before a single line appeared. The feeling knew the way. It always does.
So if you are sitting on something unsayable, do not write it down. Sing it badly, sing it vaguely, sing it until the shape shows. Language will catch up — it hates being left out.
More Fragments.
Journal
