I bought a Streisand album today.  A live c.d. with a long list of some of her best songs.  Something about her voice makes me feel hollow and filled up all at the same time.  There’s a yearning in it that is present no matter the lyric.

I wish my writing could be that way – leave the reader with a catch in the throat, a near gasp at the beauty of the phrase, the pressure of tears just from the joy of experiencing something so agonizingly wonderful, so brief, yet so profound.  It’s all inside me.  I just haven’t figured out how to let it go free.

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