Working on a short story that I love and I hate how that sentence reads like that of a million others because, what am I gonna do, explain what it’s about when it’s really not about much?
But it’s accompanied by a song that fits perfectly in the sound to which I’ve become accustomed. Needtobreathe’s “Second Chances”, Devotchka’s “This Place is Haunted”, Chris Martin’s “Your Love Means Everything” and now: Feist’s “Water”. Lurve. LURVE. It fits that space when instrumental music does not suffice, for whatever reason (because really, one can’t accuse it of not sufficing). Thomas, James, Hans, you know I love you. (Newman, Horner, Zimmer for the beasts among you.) And, of course, I’m requiring you to listen to this and not say anything if it doesn’t make you close your eyes and pour words from your fingertips.
Did you not just die. Which makes me think of the millions of times a song destroys you (in a good way) and you are in this haze that doesn’t let the rest of the sensory world in which of course makes it seem like that song is all there is? And then you go to somebody and, rabid-mouthed, force them to listen to it and they give you that raised eyebrow look that pretty much conveys that they weren’t in that exact spot in which that song would have made them realize what the purpose of life is so. Basically, they think you’re hearing things?