I am standing on the sidewalk cradling my cello and wondering why I'm wasting my time with Chaucer even though I was sure I hated my cello, but then why would I run into a burning building to get it back if I hate it. I love it. and I hate it. and I love it. in this obsessive abusive relationship kind of way, except that I don't know who's the abuser or the abused but I do know that I don't care if I ever finish Chaucer.
There was a casette, on the ledge above my kitchen sink, and on it was the one great recording of "spaces" which was the song that was going to change everything. except the tape melted and the lyrics burned and the timing was wrong and it was lost and is still lost and it's the thing I miss most of all.
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