Writing 500 songs in 500 weeks is a thing somebody can do. I'm not the first to do it. My dad has written a weekly (now twice weekly) long-form newsletter on healthcare policy for longer than I've been doing this project, so he understands this whole thing better than anybody else I know. When he saw how nervous I was to write this one, he reminded me that it's just another song. He was right of course. This is the thing I do. But gosh, I had a hard time with this one. I wanted so badly for it to transcend my skills and body of work, for it to touch lightly upon all the pain and hope in the world while also feeling like a personal whisper in every listener's ear. For the record, that's ridiculous.

I'm thrilled to post this. I've taken the long way to get here. I have spent nearly a decade at this task, and it now has arrived at this beautiful round number having held my hand through every fantastic and catastrophic moment that I've experienced in that time. I think of this project, and I no longer understand in simple terms what it is. I'm perplexed and elated.

It's funny to post a song at 500 weeks twice proclaiming that "nothing lasts." Despite the enduring nature of this work, I think it might actually be the central theme of my writing. This whole time I've been singing of the past slipping away, of moments evaporating, of holding on to who we were, of accepting change, of making peace, of letting go, of greeting the future, of becoming. This one follows those themes, but with a note of patience. Letting the past be in the past doesn't mean the future is at your door. We still have the present to contend with. Wherever we're going, we've got to take the long way to get there.

Thank you so much for listening. On we go to 501 and beyond. You can come along if you like.