Mr. Ben.

The first time I saw you I was fourteen. Fourteen! That's crazy styles. Eight years later, witnessing your genius without your five has literally been the highlight of my existence (insert contented sigh here).
There have been many times during my lifetime where I have failed to produce an expression of my inner most feelings, desires and emotions and once again, I've reached that point. Every form of expression has failed me miserably over the last day whilst trying to describe the copious amounts of joy I have been left with. Watching you play your Baldwin was like watching God create the fucking universe. What came out of that performance was heart-stirring magic. MAGIC, I fucking say.

How does a man from North Carolina manage to cover Dr. Dre/Snoop's Bitches Ain't Shit in an almost folk-style-happy-go-lucky-piano-anthem? How does he get a crowd that mainly consisted of bohemian, Rufus-lovers and College kids sing three part harmony a capella? how, does he take a sweet lullaby written for his daughter and contort it to a two minute pop-punk jingle? And more so, why did I like it? HOW, HOW, HOW?

I've eaten my not-from-the-can lemon meringue pie and now I can fly away with the angels. Take me home Jesus, I don't need no more of this world (contented sigh number two).