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Personally, I’m not much for symbolism. I never get it. Why can’t things be just as they are? I never thought to psychoanalyze Seymour Glass or sought to break down “Desolation Row.” I just wanted to get lost, become one with somewhere else, slip a wreath on a steeple top solely because I wished it.
Not all dreams need to be realized. That was what Fred used to say. We accomplished things that no one would ever know.
Looking back, long after his death, our way of living seems a miracle, one that could only be achieved by the silent synchronization of the jewels and gears of a common mind.
How is it that we never completely comprehend our love for someone until they’re gone?
Why is it that we lose the things we love, and things cavalier cling to us and will be the measure of our worth after we’re gone?
