It’s not an art museum, it’s a Waffle House, and you’re looking sleepy as you sip your tea. It’s three a.m. and I know we still have a few more miles until my house, but I’m home and you know it. I’m ripping up a napkin with my hands as we talk about the concert. I know I enjoyed it more than you, and I know I cried on the way home because I thought you didn’t love me, but you still came to the concert even though you didn’t really like the artist, and now we’re at a Waffle House at three a.m., and the garish yellow decor reflects on your skin, and we’re sweaty and tired, and I love you in the rare, inexpressible way that feels most potent after concerts at Waffle Houses at three a.m.
it was an amanda palmer concert, if you were curious
I'm thinking of a song of the blue bird's lullabies when he sings to his babies as the soft wind accompanies softly With sparkling stream gushing, A meadow of poppies swaying The tree's branches raise its arms and waves One cradles the birds A shuffle 'round in the bushes The leaves flutter The little chicks drift away With a dream above their heads and a heart filled with love
Piano trilling Drums thrilling Bass pumps straight through your heart Guitar screams, Keys dream, Vocals piercing like a dart— Mist shifts Mood lifts Hot chills electric down your spine Crowd yells Colors swell Lift your hands, lose your sense of time...
Once upon a time concerts were my thing But no more, no more, my love, my love Now listening to a nightingale sing, gazing upon moonlight enchanting, and faraway stars glittering Is so much better than a strange song of multiple bullets, zing, zinging
Was a beautiful night to remember in Vegas until..