16 February 2010

821 Sixth Ave.

Respectively, and supremely, we all carry our weapons of choice in our back pockets. To paraphrase: ought you suffer slings and arrows, or ought you arm yourself against that sea of troubles? He has his, I mine, and weapons not the same are deployed, with not the same effect, nor with the same intent. But no! Intent, I think, I believe is, in the very deepest center of itself, the same. Love is love, joy, joy, melancholia, melancholia. We each feed the same sea, but our tides, the pull, the force of our moons is for one a lovesick ballad on the bongos, and another, a dirge, dense and deafening, hammered out on the 88 keys.

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