There's a tame status quo holding back the inevitable evaporate. Where did the French develop the frantic sense of vintage delicacy? Where did I come down with it? What is it that's impossibly beautiful about Calvin & Hobbes? Did we all live it out? From whence comes the sound of the entire cosmic chorus, and can anyone determinatively fit it into my headphones? Does a whole string of Ys ask or answer? Do you hear the sparkle, and will it sound as swell on the rockabilly revival?
I'm starting to feel the after-malaise spreading through the social networks, enfeebling and surrealing. Can't I call Alexander and ask to do the day all over again? We could strike all the same poses and dance to the same music, and it would be strange and false and unholy. We could look almost the same, and wrap our lips around our teeth like nothing's changed. The months would be almost invisible on our faces, but the growth rings are set in and some things never peel back.
Sometimes, every day, I want to steal back summer downtown and prove how bad I'm willing to keep the dream alive. Why won't I ever have as much to say as Jonathan Richman? Why can't I throw ahead to the overdone and choose again? Why have I had the same breakdown three times this month at least? Call me up and break me out of back-and-forth living miniature redux. I don't know where you keep yourself, so walk me home & far away and take me where the walls are just words and the floor feels like waiting to dance. Stop adjusting to the anti-glorious! Our chandeliers hang in great loose swags of tulle, you're giving up pretense, and I never passed up any show business in these shoes. Blood and onions smell so much alike it's a wonder a vamp like me can keep anything down.