A song is a room, however happy or sad.
Wherein you or I might dwell, while either singing it or listening to it. And each song has it’s own lights. It’s own wallpaper. It’s own furniture. And it’s own doors and windows peculiar to itself. And some are dark jail cells of isolated experience. While others pulsate with sunlight and flowers and the warm, tender juice of love. Some songs leave you dizzy with their gaudiness. And some are just WHITE and severe. And each is a never ending thing that I might come back to again and again and again at any chosen time.