I looked up an old soppy song that holds fond memories, just
for old times’ sake, and found the following two comments:
‘…real music died around 97 early 98.’
Well, that’s a bit of a generalisation if you like.
‘The songs from the past, when men and women actually loved
each other.’
Actually? Love is dead; it’s official.
But then I came across a third, which I quote verbatim with
the upper case letters missing. It makes it all the more poignant.
‘i miss my wife. she passed away on June 25th,
2013, breast cancer.’
The sudden escalation from ridiculously unreal to achingly
real brings you close to the surreal. Having scoffed at a couple of idiots, now
you want to weep for a poor guy in mourning. You do. The tapestry of life is a
mysterious thing which loves to push you into contrasting modes of perception
that sometimes leave you staggering.
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