<p>Life’s a Long Unfolding Series of Towns, Very Doomy Towns, you stumble, you race, you clomp through forever and cannot reach. </p><p>And always you find yourself missing. </p><p>In fact you only know you’re alive in here because you feel something twist, some kind of torque, a spiraling energy in place of an I, and as lonely.</p><p>*</p><p>This year be a groupie at nearly sixty. A kind of project that stumbled upon you and stuck. You call it incandescence. You follow the darling artist, schedules taxis and tickets, you get on a plane and off a plane and dance with the other sweet angel crazies when the artist encourages such, when she cues you to rock the place clear to the ground. You love to rock the place clear to the ground, an epically awesome remodeling, your face fully melty, truly you do, but lately long to sit very still and be quiet. </p><p>Sit very still and be quiet. The singer is going away— in certain songs, please, if you listen— into her emptiness, her solitude. </p><p>She may look eternally young, but her soul we know is ancient, and sad, and sore. </p><p>*</p><p>Her tour bus is long and dark, you can't see in. Understandable; the more a star is pursued the further they must go away. love— withdraw love— withdraw</p><p>*</p><p>She’s doping us up on her voice real good, she's ridiculously good. And if we’d only shut up, if we’d only stay put, she may actually deliver us there, way down there at the heart of the song unsingable where we’re all of us no one together.</p>