…human speech is like a cracked kettle on which we tap crude rhythms for bears to dance to, while we long to make music that will melt the stars.
Last night as I was sleeping
I dreamt — blessed illusion —
that I had a beehive
here inside my heart
And the golden bees
white combs and sweet honey
from my old failures.
We’re all going to die, all of us,
what a circus!
That alone should make us love each other but it doesn’t.
We are terrorised and flattened by trivialities,
we are eaten up by nothing.
.. All I can say is what you already know: some days are treasure. Not many, but I think in almost every life there are a few. That was one of mine, and when I’m blue - when life comes down on me and everything looks tawdry and cheap, the way Joyland Avenue did on a rainy day - I go back to it, if only to remind myself that life isn’t always a butcher’s game. Sometimes the prizes are real. Sometimes they’re precious.