Old Grey Whistle Test


I’ll tell you what it’s like. It’s like never having actually been in love with someone, but with a growing shadow you only see in retrospect, shading dismally over your last thousand days and all that they have meant to you. For an instant you remember a smile, or a touch, or a glance or a moment dancing in a crowded party and that memory is so much like dust now, a simple, plentiful thing that you have to clean up. Avoiding messes is your main priority, and it is hard. You want to be a mess, lash out at certain petty emotional injustices you had a hand in creating, drown your sorrows in Miller Lite until the world around you grows heavy and finite, more controllable, narrows down into a tiny sliver. But control is the hardest task, pretty much impossible. All you can do in response to the thudding, leaden machinations of your heart is listen to Crooked Fingers and pound Smirnoff until your senses are mere villains, and your bed is the only place you can stumble to.