Too many ants in the ant farm, not enough love to go 'round. Me? I'm saving boxtops and green stamps, trying hard to believe in the goodness of something.
There was a time when it was all soul music. Phil, as you will recall, had been cheated. He had been mistreated. They sang like angels. They fought like dogs.
Loss is cumulative, it seems, and joy is one knock-knock joke at a time. I'd give myself to the ghost of rock'n'roll but I was promised to a hopeless cause.