When someone is missing, their possessions start to take on meaning.
Where I run into these things – a lover’s shirt, her hairbrush, the empty dresser – I begin to make up songs. In a way, a song is just a long, loving look at whatever remains.
Outside the song, does an outside exist? The world and everything in it, every place and event spins and spins, then one day it will all slow down because nothing can spin forever. The world is just that way.
But inside the song, the world is a certain way. Inside of it, every molecule of everyone and every place, moment and thing swells with life, and is safe and sound forever.
