There is no story to tell as yet. I live it up as I go along. Lost in another scented season. I am a singer without a song. But that is the fate of those like me. Or at least what we improvise. There is no story to tell as yet. But there are a thousand lies. And my favorite of them all, the one that I love most. Is the one I tell everyone of how you made me feel like a ghost. There is no story to tell as yet, no matter what you’ve heard. You mistook me for someone else. Someone who has a way with words.
In which a long-time record collector decides which albums to keep and which to cull, supplemented by other commentary and poems
