The new job is going well. The old job is still here. Time is an old friend that I don't see too often these days. Fridays and Saturdays are spent waltzing with one another as if we never parted, only to find that it's Sunday once again and I'm working the grindstone til I die of repetitive motion. My horoscope for the day says to spill the beans about everything or others will never tell me the secrets they wish to tell me. Too bad the only thing that loosens my lips are alcohol and a sense of irony, meaning you should show up for Happy Hour on Wednesday nights and I'll spill all.
It's sad to think that memory, music, and the written word are the only things that will never leave us, especially when you realize age may take your mind one day. What was I talking about? My mind was dismantled back in the great war, before pain and misery took control of the chords. My heart was left overseas, tossed overboard with inhibitions and someone's cookies. I can feel it, beating, far off in a distant watery grave. The Mediterranean is warmer this time of year. One day some young girl will stumble across it, but by then I'll have grown far too old to let her keep it. Somehow I always knew I'd be stealing hearts from the young. Call it revenge.
Hey I found the safest place to keep all our tenderness, to keep all those bad ideas, to keep all our hope. It's here in the smallest bones, the feet and the inner ear. It's such an enormous thing, to walk and to listen.