On legacy (and saying goodbye to Steve Albini).

The moon is here somewhere, we think (or maybe we say it out loud). We cut our fingers searching.

How long now have I kept you here – when did it become me keeping you?

Turning the crusty old pool rule into a surf-guitar song.

You were still crying while we joined the crimson smear of traffic. My hands felt raw from the applause.

I walked up behind you in the crowd and, in your ear, like a heartbeat, spilled everything out.

Dream big, fail. Dream big, fail again and again and again. Then stop dreaming.

On—nothing?

When Maria was around, she stood out and everyone else was in soft focus.

Blank space, walls stripped bare, shelves removed, drawers emptied.

I’ve been singing it at least once a day for the past eleven and a half years.

"the wishbone is still there, at the corner of my window rampart against the dust"

There is nothing more terrible than when hope itself becomes a dangerous shard, emitting its own embarrassing light.

I didn’t know Joe had a hero, too.

On mortality.

you fucking wrote this email with a line break built in and it’s killing me

The important parts aligning, by cosmic design, or happenstance.

Needed to clear my head. Forget about her for a while. So, I got paddling.

This is my blueprint for being a whole person.

The remote had been under you, under your butt, one last time.