Blogagaards In the Mist

Foggy tonight as I strolled through St. Paul my shoes crunching under me my hands stuck in gloves stuck inside pockets my coat not fully zipped because I am reckless sometimes thinking not thinking it did not matter everything was covered in mist as if I were in London or the rain forests of Honduras where I once saw the biggest damned red ants you could ever want to see and for some reason I started thinking about a guitarist on a stage in an empire full of people all following his every strum and it occurred to me that his song (which was known by heart by all) was not simply a song but a requiem for the living who will become dead and knowing or unknowingly they are singing for themselves, singing themselves off to death and would you not listen raptly if you knew the song was for you, that all the songs had been for you all along?