Here’s the night for you baby. You’ve been gone for full minutes now. There was the drugs in the bathroom which I am not to tell you about. It’s a rock-star secret. Don’t tell the girl… only to hurt the mother, and father all coming down on you in strange and opportunistic ways.
I made up my mind that I would off to the wheelhouse go. He’s got me in his. Where is it? I don’t know. Fell half in love every half mile since I left the state penn. You know what I am talking about. Or the latter in which the man became half bike, and bike half him. Here’s your Irish lullaby.
I have been drinking again and if you didn’t realize, or are not a veteran, this is the time when this place tends to bloat – for better or worse.
And you are standing in the shadows of a wide-swing tremelo. I am undercertain of the sustainability of the current circumstance.
I think of you two way too much. I think of what we will ever have.
You are in a distant part of the planet, brought closer by virtues of internet-enabled communication. You, in-love and unavailable. I guess now I know how you felt about the rest of us all along.
You, you one, and me and Chuck went one night and heard her sing and cried like adolescent boys at the loss of first conquest. She says, “take the glory any day baby, over the fame,” and I break into tears in front of a CRT, a testament to my cyborg-ness. When I have these moments they seem to be so.
It’s a wide-swing tremelo, it’s a you in a baker’s hat. It’s a creepy sensation that all of the world has closed down. No lights moving, nothing open. It’s a no-doughnut kind of world. It’s a missing you, and you, and you and you. It’s a drunken night alone. It’s a creepy sensation that this may need to be the state of affairs. It’s a sixties, throw-back, live in the woods, all of us – burn technology into a silicone lumpen mass, hell, look at me, I am naked – kind of dream.
And it is all along the shores of Lake Michigan – or the Potomac – or the pond at the Lodge.
It’s th coming through complicated, and the search for simple.
It’s what we had all along.
I figure something will happen if I lay back and wait for it to. I guess all nights converge. I guess sweetness converges. I guess the hall light will stay on all night. A half-pound of coffee you never tasted until the next day at a completely different place. I bought it for you.
I gotta get my shit together. I gotta get to bed. It won’t never make sense for many of you. But perhaps for the ones that it counts, it will.
How’s the for an errata, a filler, pro-epi-logue. This book will be a thousand pages before I turn it in, Holling.