So you stay home, alone, and before you know it, just as the bourbon is taking hold, one of those unbelievably ambiguous and nostalgic songs by The Postal Service comes on. You know, one of those songs with the sprite, light tune that lulls you into thinking it’s just banal triviality, but then somehow you hear it again as if for the first time and all of a sudden you feel yourself in the song . . . And I’m looking through the glass Where the light bends at the cracks And I’m screaming at the top of my lungs Pretending the echoes belong to someone — Someone I used to know. . . . and you’re
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