Songs from
the intersection.

This song started with a quote Jimmie wrote — then took on a different shape entirely when, mid-composition, his heart decided to make its opinion known. He finished the song anyway. Then opened Facebook and typed a message to his paramedic before something worse happened. He has a pacemaker now. The song got its ending that night.

A Civil and Aerospace engineer who makes animated films and writes songs isn't a contradiction. It's a thesis. "Intersection" is that thesis set to music — the argument that the compass and the flame aren't opposites, they're the same search with different tools. Perfection is found where the lines start to blur.

For the overthinkers. The quiet fires. Everyone who has ever watched someone lose patience during the second of silence it takes to carefully consider ten thousand things at once before answering. The pause isn't absence. It's everything happening at the same time, trying to find the right door out.

Not a prophecy. Not a conspiracy. Just a man paying attention to too many things converging at once — data, weather, war, markets, machines talking in the midnight — and feeling something drawing near. A dark, cinematic song about watchfulness. Written for the people who would rather stay awake than be asleep when it arrives.

Three men. One line running through all of them. The scars a man carries from his father often become the very things he regrets passing on — and the hardest truth is that you don't just pass on the old wounds, you add new ones of your own making. This song stands between two men who, in Jimmie's eyes, are nearly perfect — and tries to account for the distance between them and the one who isn't.