Dear John,
The first time I heard “Fake Empire” by the National was in Las Vegas. I don’t think there is a more apt place to listen to that song, our car rolling by the extravagance of the strip to the dilapidated downtown hotels. Armed with daiquiris we took in the light show, with the girls' striptease on overhead screens. You consumed me, and when asked to go along to film your video for a song about breaking up, I jumped.
I was disappointed by the everything. Going under the pretenses that there was a re-connection to be discovered and some warm sun to soak up (or at least a warm hot-tub to soak in) I was jilted from my dream to find it all colder than I had expected. “Sweet, um, we’re ex-lovers and all, and although we’re in the city of sin, ya ain’t getting my sorry smelly ass and oh btw I wrote this song and am not going to acknowledge the strange coincidence of situation and content.”
That’s what you said. Without using words.
I have woven my stories explaining you to myself, covering my bed in patchwork knitted tatters that when sewn together make a man I’d like to love. Somewhere between the separate beds and Nebraska I realize the myth I mourned was simply a figment of my stereo. All you are is lonely and all I am is adrift, complicating any season with the worry of the next and taking careful measures to remember it all.
Rock on lonely troubador, rock on.
Love Always,
Jane
The first time I heard “Fake Empire” by the National was in Las Vegas. I don’t think there is a more apt place to listen to that song, our car rolling by the extravagance of the strip to the dilapidated downtown hotels. Armed with daiquiris we took in the light show, with the girls' striptease on overhead screens. You consumed me, and when asked to go along to film your video for a song about breaking up, I jumped.
I was disappointed by the everything. Going under the pretenses that there was a re-connection to be discovered and some warm sun to soak up (or at least a warm hot-tub to soak in) I was jilted from my dream to find it all colder than I had expected. “Sweet, um, we’re ex-lovers and all, and although we’re in the city of sin, ya ain’t getting my sorry smelly ass and oh btw I wrote this song and am not going to acknowledge the strange coincidence of situation and content.”
That’s what you said. Without using words.
I have woven my stories explaining you to myself, covering my bed in patchwork knitted tatters that when sewn together make a man I’d like to love. Somewhere between the separate beds and Nebraska I realize the myth I mourned was simply a figment of my stereo. All you are is lonely and all I am is adrift, complicating any season with the worry of the next and taking careful measures to remember it all.
Rock on lonely troubador, rock on.
Love Always,
Jane
