There was a frustrated ball of thoughts in the pit of my brain earlier tonight that feels a little less wound-up now. I turned off the TV a couple hours ago and fell into the couch with a New Yorker magazine. That helped. The TV in conjunction with the traffic outside my window formed a dischord of competing, unwanted noise. The Son Volt channel on Pandora now feels calmer, like the audio version of soft accent lighting. I haven’t even been awake for 12 hours yet.
Could I endure a solitary life of a passion for music and books occasionally punctuated by AMPs, escorts, and tennis with pretty and sweaty girls who would never ever touch me? I can. I do.
Parker's Hootenanny 