I started playing the trumpet when I was about eight.

No matter how close to yours another's steps have grown, in the end there is one dance you'll do alone.

I followed those highway signs and I've run down those thin white lines.

Caught between the longing for love, and the struggle for the legal tender, where the sirens sing and the church bells ring, and the junk man pounds his fender. Where the veterans dream of the fight, fast asleep at the traffic light, and the children solemnly wait for the ice cream vendor.

And my dad wanted me to play the trumpet because that's what he liked. His idol was Louis Armstrong. My dad thought my teeth came together in a way that was perfect for playing the trumpet.

Let the music keep our spirits high, let the buildings keep our children dry, let creation reveal its secrets by and bye.

Famine and disaster, right there in front of you, and the more you watch, the less you do.