Songs kill.  Songs that contain the secret messages – the ones I missed. Or not. Because the songs remain as dinosaur bones. Clues to what happened in the past. That’s what we tell ourselves.

But songs, songs, these are not bones.  They are flesh, and they are spirit, my spirit and your spirit. Until you leave. Then they are bones of your spirit.  Clues.

What does it feel like when you lose your hand in an accident? Your severed hand lying in front of you.  How do  you feel? You feel the sense of peermanent loss, in waves. Not a steady acceptance of loss.. no.  Waves of self pity, that have the flavor of childhood, when you turned to your mother with your existèntial sorrows. Why do sparrows give off that feeling when we discover them dead? Why do we see our own loss in God’s losses?