Letters by Kenny Mah

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December 18, 2008

Hey you,

The song is untitled and I have not written it yet.

My friend, the composer, has given me a snippet, a minute, enough for me to get the feel of it. It isn’t a song yet. I haven’t written the words to it. Some words do come, but it isn’t there. Not quite. The song is untitled.

This doesn’t mean I don’t know what the song is about though. I don’t need words to hear what the music is telling me. We all fear going forward, don’t we? It’d be nice to have some advice, some wisdom to guide us. A mentor, a mage, a movie mogul even. (Steven Spielberg seems very sage.) But the words are missing, they haven’t reached us. We have to do without words for now.


Listen to the sound of us getting older, the song of us growing up.

It’s terrifying. It’s very beautiful.


It’s okay, the rest of us are too. Words can fail sometimes, to explain, to clarify. Life can be undefinable. How we shape ourselves into who we are, that’s some essay in the college of life. And that essay is untitled too. We won’t finish it anytime soon either. May we have long lives. (And I bet our lives are interesting enough without me wishing that old gypsy’s curse on us.)

May we finish this essay, this song, this life. May we find a title for it.

And who knows? Part of it may be Joy. Part of it may be Love.

I’m pretty sure I’m gonna use those words in my song. And this will be my song for you — our song.

Yours always and always,

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