Permanent wounds are for other people, you think; you don’t believe you could be the one whose story goes He never… Never walked again, saw the ocean, left the neighborhood, blew out 25 candles on his birthday cake. Even when you live with death, as queers do, he’s the DJ, not your lover — up there on stage, sweetening the music of your swiftly passing night. He’s a name you drop, like JFK or Judy Garland, someone you’re all supposed to know, but not too well. Where were you when you heard…? The question means, tell me about the time you remembered you were still alive.
