I burned the CD to my hard drive. Then I made three copies. One for my daughter, for when she’s old enough to understand what a dream looks like before it becomes a regret. One for my ex-wife, because she once asked if I ever made anything beautiful, and I lied and said no.
It never answered. But for forty-seven minutes and twelve seconds, it listened. rock band songs 1
But fame never came. Instead came thirty-three years, a divorce, a mortgage, a child who thinks my guitar is “a weird decoration.” I stopped writing songs somewhere around the time I started writing performance reviews. The calluses on my fingers softened. The voice that once screamed about matches and rain now gently asks people to hold for the next available representative. I burned the CD to my hard drive
I never listened to the CD again. I packed it away, told myself it was a demo, a rough draft, a thing I’d revisit when I was famous enough to laugh at my origins. One for my ex-wife, because she once asked
I slid the disc in. The drive whirred, clicked, hesitated—then recognized it.