I write to Josh Groban.
No, not like sending him letters in the mail.
Like playing his songs while I type.
His music demands something. Creativity. Thought. A story. But not its own—Honestly, I can’t understand any of the Italian—instead, it lets me make up mine. His English words? They swirl around and around, blocking out the world. Blissful white noise that invites inspiration.
It’s funny, though. I can’t read to him. Continue reading