This is the story of a boy. A boy who, for all intents and purposes, lacks a drive or a focus or even an inkling of an idea as to what his life may or may not be. The sad truth of the matter is he often crosses paths with women who could change his world. One in particular very well could have been the one, but neither will ever know because two states and a car ride separated their hearts as well as their souls. “You and I both know I can’t promise that.”

This is the story of a girl whose soul is hard to manage. Impossible to cage. The soul of a vixen. A femme fatale. A siren who lurks beneath a placid surface of false pretenses. She feigns love and attraction to lure men into a hollow love of physicality. She simply asks for his undying love, but quickly ices over at the implication of affection. “Just don’t fall in love with me. Don’t ruin this.”

This is the story of a soul. A soul which wanders to and fro, up and down, North to South, and East to West. A soul which lacks a guide in madness, but which frolics in fantastic delusions. A forbidden tryst met with cold shoulders and broken hearts. The windows fog and the rain patters on the hood. Heavy breaths give way to a longing plea of, “Don’t ruin this. Do not fall in love with me.”

This is the story of a girl. A girl whose soul is weary, weak, and woefully sullen. She wanders the world (or what little of it she knows) speaking to strangers and asking forgiveness. Her heart is hard but surprisingly open. Quick professions and digital messages all preempt a quest for indiscernable answers to the lackluster, soul shattering question, "Why can't he be happy with me?"

This is the story of a boy. A musician by trade but hardly a man by any other name than that biblical angel who relayed the message of the coming Begotten Son. His solemn melodies and harmonious writing blend together to mend a heart or two before moving on to the East then the South then the North then the West. His four strings simply play accompaniment to various other tunes and he is left wondering, "What am I supposed to do? How can you possibly expect me to answer that?"