I sit in a metal chair. I wear black shoes, a black hat, a black dress. I drink black tea.
The wind outside moans in harmony with Jeff's haunting Corpus Christi.
It doesn't even matter that I'm alone. I'll be leaving soon,
Before it becomes the same, before you
Lose that something that was worth living through tragedy.
It's 1993.
3 comments:
Your writing makes me feel like an imbecile. Mostly because I never understand the deeper, hidden meaning behind all the big words and metaphors. I'm so shallow!
Meh. You are not shallow; I am an abstract writer. I was listening to Jeff Buckley and thinking if I could time travel to see one musician live, and one only, it would be Jeff Buckley, in 1993, in Paris, before he died mysteriously. You should listen to some Jeff Buckley, and you will wonder about his mysterious death, too... and you, too, will wish you could have sat in a cafe and watched him croon.
Why couldn't I have just written it that way, right?
Because then it wouldn't be mysterious and thus have much less appeal to all the artists in the world...weirdos!
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