It is currently 12:16am, January 3, 2007. Not even the walls make a sound tonight. The orange wash of the reading light is all that is illuminated in my loft. The bulb is cradled at the pit of the dented tin lampshade. oOOooH...hOw bOheMiAn!

Writing because I feel that I need to. Grasping these last few hours of vacation time, the 9-5 resumes shortly after the next time I lift my back from this mattress. My confession, reader, is now that I've decided to blog more, and more in depth, I feel the lingering pressure to write impressively, every time. But what happens when there is no wit to spittle, no jokes to hurl, no beautiful language offer for taste? Does it still make sense for me to write? Perhaps just keep the process to myself? My confession, reader, is my temptation to only expose myself to you when everythings shiny and polished. When all the snares hit, the voice is mastered, the colors are calibrated. But then what good is the artist who hides his growth from his audience simply to resurface new and improved, but without context, every few years?

I just copped the new Mos Def today and I'm soooooo geeked about it! Mos is one of those artists that I'll ride with, wherever he takes me on the record. New Danger taught me that, to have faith in artists, that albums that you hate the first rotation could be one of your favorite albums of all time in the near future. It's the good albums that you like too quickly to be worried about. Longevity, fueled by growth, is blind to trend.