She's eleven. I'm almost seventy. If all the lessons are loss, we're both stuck with memories of wives, girlfriends, roommates and red headed singers. It's been quite a year. We've said goodbye to hope, romance and our Angel. Somehow, though, I look forward to the rest of it and in my anthropomorphic arrogance I'm pretty sure that she does, too. These melodies fill my head and this love fills my heart. Hot dog, buddy, buddy!
Never get sentimental about jobs, cars, or women!ReplyDelete
This woman who left - she's not someone you see in passing on a regular basis is she? I've had a few of those and they're hellish hard not to dive at their feet with your arms open. But you walk past and nod and walk on nodding like a bobble-head and you go home and pull out records you know are going to make you miserable. I could always live with miserable. It was cheery that I found odious. In honesty, anything else would be a lie. And I was always told not to lie.ReplyDelete