Back to Jazz again and I can't be happier. There's something transcendent about it. Something lovely and beautiful, something so fully aesthetic that it pierces my reality to reveal something much- cooler. That life isn't just life, without mothballs and grit, that there's perfect syncopation in your movement and rhythm instead of bumbling. That everything is magically clean and that you've lost ten pounds without knowing it.

That you're in a room with big wide bay windows, incandescent light filtering in and making you warm. Kissing your face. That you're happy eternally. Even when cowgirls sing the blues. You're happy. Somewhere. Somewhere inside.

That you're not moving through air, but liquid. Warm, soft, swirling liquid.

That slows everything down to perfection.

Like a recurrent wound, it stabs me at midnight.

I can't help but to think about that night, when the house was caught in torrential downpour, and I listened to the groans of Janis Joplin.

Somehow I can't help but to let all of it haunt me. I don't think anybody could really ever understand how much it hurt, how much all of it hurt. So much so that my words become blocked, my chest tightens and my throat runs dry. I can't fully speak of it.

I feel that pain so intensely.