Amplified

I really wanted something, giving myself permission to screw up wasn't an option

Do you have a name I asked?" I asked. "Yes." He stared back at me, blinking. "What is it?" "Clover." He looked away and typed something into the computer. His mouth kept twitching, like he was trying to hold in laughter. "Seriously?" He pushed his sleeve up, giving me a view of a blue clover tattooed on his forearm. "I'm half Irish." And half shithead.

Maybe I was being naive. Even stupid. I mean, who would trade Standford for being homeless? [...] But I had to know if I was meant to be a musician. Otherwise I'd spend the rest of my life regretting it. Asking myself... what if?

Dave walked closer to me, his dark eyes combing my every move. "Do you always hold your guitar like that?" I dropped my pick. "Do you always shop at Hot Topic?

He'd probably spent as much time practicing scales as he had jacking off.

He said, 'Jasmine actually seemed like part of the band tonight.'" A smile twitched his lips. "Then he questioned his sanity.

I may not have written the song, but I could add my story to it. Everyone out there could. That was what made music so powerful.