While angry longing sweeps gustily through the channels that make of my soul a darkened maze, I listen to songs that have become like unto classics. And the thoughts and feelings that they were once soundtrack to, flood the angry longing, turning the world, this place where the meadowlark sleeps, into something more.
The light becomes softer, gentle. The scrape of chairs and the ringing tones of cellphones, and the tenor and bass, alto and soprano of un-silent voices fade into the bearable facsimile of a drone.
Oh, truly, in this moment, with Oasis's Wonderwall playing its sharps and flats, this path I've embarked upon once more is too poignant for angry longing to hold much sway.
The light becomes softer, gentle. The scrape of chairs and the ringing tones of cellphones, and the tenor and bass, alto and soprano of un-silent voices fade into the bearable facsimile of a drone.
Oh, truly, in this moment, with Oasis's Wonderwall playing its sharps and flats, this path I've embarked upon once more is too poignant for angry longing to hold much sway.
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