And This, And That (Remix)

[INTRO — spoken, rapid, overlapping voices] Da’Mond's locked up. His girl's scrambling, trying to get him out— and craving something. Cleveland sends a text. “Write one called All [BLEEP] Feels Good.” He's got that smirk like he doesn't think I can pull it off. Rebecca hits me— “Hey, if you're free, I'm livestreaming tonight. Would love for you to join us. I've been talking about your music. I hope that's okay.” Anthony's fixing to swerve off course, trying to save the world while his own ship is burning. Brandi went silent. Underground. And I'm wondering if she's slipping further away since he got out. And this— and that— and that— and this. [BEAT DROPS] Everybody's carrying something. Everybody's saying something. Everybody's disappearing somewhere. And somehow they're all ending up inside the music. [VERSE 1] One message becomes a melody, one sentence becomes a hook, one person's bad night becomes a story somebody else finally understands. Da’Mond's behind a wall, somebody outside still waiting on a call. Cleveland wants a song with a title that'll make everybody stop scrolling. Rebecca's opening a livestream, saying my name in a room I've never seen. Anthony's trying to save everybody with smoke coming out his engine. And Brandi— nothing. No message. No explanation. Just silence. And silence can get loud when you care about somebody. [CHORUS] And this, and that, and that, and this. Another story I don't know how to miss. Everybody's got a fire. Everybody's got a wound. Everybody's trying to make it through the room. And I'm catching all the pieces, trying to turn them into sound. One story goes up while another one goes down. And this. And that. And that. And this. [VERSE 2] Somebody sends a paragraph. Somebody sends three words. Somebody says, “Can you make this into a song?” And suddenly I'm staring at a life that isn't mine. That's the strange part. You don't always need the whole story. Sometimes one sentence contains the whole damn thing. “I miss you.” “I'm trying.” “I'm back.” “I'm tired.” “Can you hear me?” “Are you free tonight?” “Don't worry about me.” That last one usually means— worry about me. [BRIDGE — fragmented voices] Black Flag. Written Prayers. You and Yours. I Tried. I'm Here Now. Pleasure Ain't Freedom. Get Back Up. Don't Disappear. Stay. Leave. Come Home. Listen. [BEAT CUTS] And somewhere in the middle of all those voices, I realize— I'm not collecting songs. I'm collecting moments before they disappear. [FINAL VERSE] Maybe that's what this thing is. Not an album. Not really. A room. A place where somebody can walk in carrying something they don't know what to do with. A sentence. A memory. A mistake. A prayer. A joke. A text at two in the morning. A story somebody thought nobody would care about. And maybe somebody hears it and says— “That's me.” That's the moment. That's the whole reason. Because everybody's story looks different until you get close enough to hear the same fear underneath it. [FINAL CHORUS] And this, and that, and that, and this. Another human being trying not to disappear. Another voice coming through the static. Another life asking to be heard. And I'm still listening. Still writing. Still trying to catch the pieces before they fall. Da’Mond. Cleveland. Rebecca. Anthony. Brandi. And all the names I haven't heard yet. And this. And that. And that. And this. [OUTRO — overlapping voices] “Hey...” “You there?” “Can you write this?” “I've got an idea.” “I'm not doing great.” “I'm okay.” “Actually, I'm not.” “Listen to this.” “Don't forget me.” [pause] I'm listening.