"Between Heaven and Hell"

I spent the early part of the day with people I never wanted to be around in the first place — wounded souls who cling to company, dependency, and drama because it’s all they know. I went only to help someone who needed help I couldn’t give, and somehow, I still became the villain when I tried to leave. Even after I fed him because he was hungry, drove him to get what he wanted — cigarettes, nothing more — he turned on me, angry that I wouldn’t stay in that cramped world with him. Their talk was all bitterness, false accusations, and black‑and‑white thinking, a place where truth goes to die.

And then, as if the universe wanted to remind me who I really am, I walked into Whiskey River and found my people — the ones who welcome me with open arms, who tell stories of the past to strangers, who live in color and possibility. Their laughter felt like the crickets I once hated on Decatur Avenue, the ones I eventually grew to love, the chorus that carried me to sleep. Tonight, that sound returned in a different form — the sound of belonging.

Age has taught me this: I know exactly who I don’t want in my life, and I know who I want completely. Tonight made the divide unmistakable — Hell in the people whose world is small, bitter, and built on false accusations, and Heaven in the ones whose minds are open, curious, and unafraid of possibility.

Later, when “Silent Running: Can You Hear Me” began playing on its own — the first song I heard after the death of the man I loved — I understood the day had been speaking to me all along.

​I hear you, Paul...