You loved that girl who sang for Clown Alley. I remember the night we saw them play. I saw a tragic passion I don’t envy never to have felt. You were a virtuoso on the piano. You were the “oldest punker and the poorest Jew” who OD’d in a warehouse south of Market. I don’t know why, but your memory sticks like gum on the heel of my shoe. You killed yourself on ******, but you are alive every time I think of you.