The song I keep coming back to for my work is U2's Where the Streets Have No Name — and if you know it, you already understand why. It doesn't start with an answer. It starts with a build. All that anticipation before a single word is sung — that's the feeling I'm always chasing. The moment just before the structure gives way and something true breaks through. I spent years in law doing the opposite of that — keeping the structure intact, making sure the rules held, making sure people didn't wander into territory that would cost them. And somewhere in that work I realized the most interesting stories live exactly there — at the edge of the map. Where the discipline ends and the chaos begins. That song is about wanting to go somewhere undefined. Somewhere the old markers don't apply and you have to figure out who you are without them. That tension — between the world that has rules and the world that doesn't — is what I return to in everything I write, and if I'm being honest, everything I've ever argued. The real story is never in what's said. It's in what people reach for when the ground shifts under them. That's the work. On both sides of it.