For years and years I have bribed myself into writing by saying, “We could take a bath, you know—really think about what we’re going to write before it is actually written.”

“We”, of course, because I am a million terrible flavors of human crammed into one body.

The most dominant flavor says, “Yes, let us take a bath.” And off we go, because the idea of being entombed in hot water sounds preferable to having to dig around in the dirt, so to speak, to try to write some damn thing that basically no one on this entire planet is going to read.

We get comfortable and stay awhile. Sometimes there is music and sometimes there are mostly harmless substances. Maybe we don’t even form a single sentence up there in our head. Maybe we just rot in our own fluids.

Writing this now instead of writing about our friends in Nashville. We convinced ourselves back in November that it was important that we write this. Important for whom?

Does any of this feel good? Not really. But then hardly anything does anymore.