In the town where I was born, dear sir or madam, day after day, alone on a hill, when I was younger, so much younger than today, I woke up, got out of bed, though I’ve had a drink or two and I don’t care.

We were talking about the space between us all, longer than the road that stretches out ahead, there beneath the blue suburban skies, and I’ve got nothing to say but it’s OK — it took me so long to find out, and I found out.

Half of what I say is meaningless, but it never really mattered — I will always feel the same. Doing the garden, digging the weeds — who could ask for more? I know I’ll often stop and think about them; isn’t it good? I wouldn’t mind if I knew what I was missing.

And the band begins to play; it’s certainly a thrill. Didn’t anybody tell her? If you want me to, I will. 

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