“Like a dream I remember from an easier time,
with the top rolled down on a Saturday night -
You with your high-top sneakers and your sailor tattoos
And your old fifty-five that you drove through the roof…”
I find myself unable to extricate my mind from careening endlessly through this chorus; though, in fairness, I have absolutely zero desire to terminate the infinity loop.
Cruising around Florida in the rental convertible with the top down and Gaslight Anthem coursing through air thick with the day’s residual humidity, wind slipping over my shoulders like the universe distributing a reassuring hug and rustling my hair like a loving friend furnishing comfort, I almost felt like it would all be okay.
