When I started writing songs, I thought songs would save me. I thought they would relieve me from the drudgery of day jobs and pay my rent. I thought they would release me from the mire of self-hatred and make me beautiful. I thought they would serve as a dreamscape into which I could disappear. In this other place of all consuming feeling, womb-like and unbounded, I would transmute into my actual self. The songs would be whole; they would express themselves completely, requiring nothing more of me. There would be no need to explain, illustrate, persuade, or translate. In speaking for themselves, the song would speak for me. They would say, here she is, she exists. They would replace my body and become my home.