I wouldn’t mind dying while listening to The Dodos. It’d be a lovely way to die. It still rattles my mind a bit, the assurance of my image one day being but a photograph left behind. I want my words to make a stranger feel something inexplicable, decades from now, centuries after my death. Perhaps from reading a particular line from one of my collected books of poetry, perhaps from reading a folded note I left hidden between the pages of one of my favourite books at a public library. I hope libraries still exist far into the future. It worries me that record stores might someday cease to exist. I think I worry for all the wrong reasons, and find meaning in things that have none. I think about death too much. There’s just as much sadness as there is well-being. It’s all around us, on our evening walks home from school, in the stillness of gaps between shifts of dreams, in the gestures of communal passerby’s. It’s all so simple and complex and beautiful and overwhelming. I think losing yourself in thought is one of the most intimate ways in finding yourself.
I think, I think, I think.