**This week, I’m pleased to present two special guest recordings, each giving their own interpretation of the piece. Both are entirely unique and totally different and I’m in awe of and indebted to them for sharing their time and their talent.**
(read by David Ellefson of Megadeth)
(read by Rachael Ritchey author of The Beauty Thief)
I can’t write if I want to. I can’t get anything to come up and out because it seems like there’s nothing in. There’s nothing to dig, nothing to chew, nothing to bleed and nothing to bruise. There’s work or the lack thereof. There’s life or lifelessness but there’s no love or trust and when there’s neither I have not and for nothing. I have ordinary in the way a cup of water is ordinary rather than the way a cup of water can be extraordinary. A cup of water can be extraordinary when one cup becomes ten or when one cup is served with a slice of Mediterranean lemon or when one cup is the last cup when crossing West over the crest into California or wading into the deep of Death Valley. But this one cup of water I have is the one I don’t have, the empty one, the only one, the lonely one. I have no water for roots, no rain for the withered and no rest for the wicked. Instead, I have blinding blame and inhospitable anger and dreary disbelief and ruinous rage and empty optimism and putrid pessimism. I have nothing and no one but a man and his millions helping to hold me and my head on a bed of unanswered, unresponsive accusations of foresake and forsaking, unmade and unmaking. I have questions abundant and statements redundant. I have a God undeserved of my awe and appreciation and unreserved of my anger and annihilation. I have undelivering, undying, unending emaciation and protestation. And for all this, I have no end in sight and not one word to write.