If I was a songwriter I’d write you a grainy song that spoke of places filled with the dark and the comfort of different. If I was a fellow in a weathered suit I’d buy you a stiff drink. There is the new where the walls seem too white and the floors seem too clean and your voice is too far away and the river here splits, because it is a crazy, deranged river which moves too slow as I stand and I watch as I am moving too fast. Never worry about the day that the dimes rained from his pockets, to be picked up by beggar children, because those dimes turned into moons and they can be found where they’re not sought. It is for the best anyway because I think I would write him a real something if I knew how to write.