Roses never fade

You can have your “Don’t Stop,” I’ll take this sadder-than-sad I did stop believin’ tune any day of the week. Only made it to Number 23, okay with me. 

Does the guitar at the end arc like crying? I think so. I didn’t in the fall of ‘83, when this was out there and unwinding from my radio and the car and the speakers at Champs during couples-skate (“Couples only”). It just sounded—and still does—like fallen leaves dusting around the ground in the wind, leaden skies overhead.

It’s been matte white or gray overhead here practically daily for the last two weeks. A plane decelerating in that opacity above is there, but you can’t see it. Sometimes its lights cut through the bank. 

I’ve had a few dreams about a few people from my past recently—every other day, almost. I guess even if you have left all of the physical spaces and your heart has pragmatically been emptied of a person, something is still there, in the stratus nebulosus of your mind.