I sit here looking around this suddenly strange house. I spent the day putting it back together and then was hoping I could scare up some one to have over and show it to. All the trouble was in the phone book. I went through it and found precisely no one who could who would serve the intended purpose.
I can't quite define the purpose at hand, but I'm sure it has something to do with the fiber of this imagined guest having to know that these are the only love letters they're likely to get. I think our only gift we have to give is the shitty ol' self.
So here's tonight, here's my open love letter:
Paul Westerberg turned up loud and the simple words that always fail to paint me on your screen.
I love you.
We were very bad at this.
See you in the morning.
And any other words that suddenly find strength and context in only my head. Any one of them a song or a novel. But in the end they end up none of these, they end up useless as a prayer or a poem. They end up a song that lives only in me and isn't about physics or beauty or loss or the meaning or all of this-just a song I sing when you're not around.