Sometimes I feel like a Skylar Grey song. All the excess parts of me are removed only to have the good credited to someone else. No body wants to hear her variations, just the hooks mixed with grooves and beats with the nuances of modern hip hop. And I only have to look at my son to see that the good parts of me were passed on to him. And that is something of a magic trick. A case for immorality. While I’d rather be remember as a whole, I’m glad that parts of me will continue into this world.