I added a string part to one of the songs in the new recording. Thought it was subtle, tasteful, the kind of thing that would make people think how interesting. In the studio it sounded perfect warm, patient, like it knew when to shut up. Then I got home, played it back, and there it was: the string part, suddenly twice as loud, standing in the doorway. An uninvited relative with a suitcase. It ruined the whole song. That’s how it goes. You try, you wait, you listen, and you think you’ve nailed it. But then a little distance enters. A night of sleep, a bus ride, a sandwich, suddenly you hear it differently. What seemed essential now sounds like someone explaining a joke that was never funny. What seemed delicate now smug. After a bit of separation, the song tells the truth: what needs to go, what can stay, what was never supposed to be there in the first place.

It’s humbling, but that’s the business we’re. The business of mishearing ourselves until we finally get it right, or at least less wrong. Every take, every mix, every day alive is just another draft. The trick, I guess, is learning to forgive the earlier versions. The loud strings, the bad ideas, the times you thought you were subtle. They were trying their best. We all were. And maybe that’s what keeps the work honest that little echo of failure reminding you you’re still listening.