By Hans Ebert Visit Hans-Ebert.com
Some make it through the rain, some fall by the wayside. A few make comebacks for whatever reason. A sync deal for Pringles. Included in a movie. Or television series. Or have always been there. But in the Lost And Found of one’s mind. Words that can’t be deleted.
A song about the one who got away. The one you let get away. Slipped through your fingers. Butter fingers. The one who wore your ring.
That song that meant everything about another time. And which suddenly is more relevant today.
Songs are strangely wonderful. Written by others. Somehow seemingly written for you. And which stay with you. They’re part of the soundtrack to your life. With words you said. And words you should have said.
Songs that keep you honest to yourself. Songs that take you to places where nothing else matters. It’s the magic of music. And words. That song and dance man knew. She played you like a tambourine.
Songs. A million miles away from the bullshit. It’s everything anyone needs. Truth. It’s what keeps one moving forward. And always looking back. A reminder of what once was. And maybe how it could be again. Maybe. Follow the smoke rings. You never know where they’ll lead.
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