This book is for every poet and writer—dead or otherwise—who has whispered to me over these many years, embedding themselves in my subconscious. The result of those whisperings is now released into the wind.

It is for my late father, reluctant warrior-class hero, delver, poet, and stranger in a strange land, whose self-imposed mission was to get to the bottom of it all, to extract art from pointless suffering. It is for all those who expressed the agony, the ecstasy, and the day-to-day danse macabre through music and lyrics. The palette you have all provided—its hue and tone—is virtually limitless when you begin to tap into and immerse yourself in it.

Mostly, I hope you enjoy this effort, on whatever level. But for all who might be offended, please don’t sue me; I’m broke.