I used to take the subway downtown to work every morning when I lived in a little loft apartment a few steps away from Fenway Park in Boston. As I watched people getting on the train at each stop, I’d dream of writing songs, making a difference, maybe not being so alone. Here I was in this cramped space with all these people, still alone.

Sometimes I’d wonder what these people’s lives looked like: what they were going home to, if they were frustrated or happy or alive, or just getting by; if they were living ordinary lives, or doing something extraordinary. Back then I thought there was a difference.

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