The light quit working in the jukebox, the melodies' surrender, a commonplace extinction, against the salt and the breeze of your false Mediterranean.
The burden of your rational soul in a world of extremes has torn your spirit to tatters- tatters littered across your Toronto abode. Divided amongst the heirlooms and emptied bottles. This desolation you sought to translate for the harmonious pulse of the dial tone.
Hazy, is this ancient mind, a smoking fallout of yesterday's parties to be discussed over lukewarm coffee and cigarette butts, while the shivering streams and green plains become commodified for a higher power.
Dan, my dearest friend, I loved you ferocious and freely, fanged and supremely, and as your mind coagulated on a couch, microphone in-hand, I felt nostalgic for your clumsy alcoholism, and clumsier guitar strumming.
The white fog descends, the city is hungry-- no longer can it expand. Toronto eats itself with you inside, shall I write you a postcard? Shall I kick down your door? Shall I let you join the bones you so beautifully alluded to?
Whisper, my friend, amidst the soft croon of the saxophone, whisper, my friend, of a Europe gone defective, whisper, my friend, for an apocalypse of sun to release us all from the white fog slowly burying our Toronto.