13.10.02 - 11:25 p.m.

last night i dreamt in rusts and avocado greens about
a seventies basement. neil youngs heart of gold crackling on a
record player, aaron sander sitting on a stiff orange
tweed couch. i knelt on the concrete floor, laid my head
in his lap and sobbed while he stroked my hair.
harmonica swelled up like the ending credits of a movie; i woke up as if on queue.

and im getting old.