I have written you often. There is always a fire burning. No doubt I will continue to write you letters. No doubt you will never read them. How closely I guard my hope, capturing it like starlight falling right into my palm, a tiny treasure of poison I keep to myself.
Sometimes I think I’m almost out of words. I’ve nothing left to tell you. Except perhaps that the weather is nice here now. Like summer in other places, the cities and towns that receive snow in winter. Phoenix does not get snow. Rainfall occasionally. A chilly breeze now and then. We topped out at eighty two degrees yesterday. I almost put a sweater on.
I bought DYLAN the day it was released. I like the postcards and the book with your pictures. The music, of course, though I already own it. What thrilled me the most were the songs chosen, in the order they were chosen, on each c.d. It’s as if somebody asked me specifically which songs I would like to see on disc three. Silvio I would have chosen along with Dignity and Blood in my Eyes, Things Have Changed and Someday Baby. High Water reminds me of seeing you in Kansas City. Everything is Broken reminds me of my life.
So for the ritual of loving you, of taking you as the instrument that plays the melody to each hour I exist, to the morning and its overspill of glorious sunlight, to the glory glory glory of falling into the slaughterhouse of your spinning voice, I’m happy to have this new release.
I think I’m going to smoke a cigarette. I believe I’ll enjoy a glass of red wine. Here’s to you in all of your thriving.
You must know I’d sell my heart for any one of your songs.
