I was looking at my insightful friend’s fotolog about two weeks ago, where she had placed a My Bloody Valentine album cover and wrote about an innate need to go back to this band around this part of the year, every year. It took root in me, her thoughts.

Somewhere into last night’s batter there fell a quadrille-minded boy with but one head and heart who had to ask what it would be like knowing this girl - who may very well prove that I’m just another guy failing the platonic code - had heard the same song and identified the same earths I did.

I wondered if I could marry her. So I sent her a link to an OnAirLibrary song that wouldn’t stop making me think she and I would probably get along nicely. It also strikes me that she has the same kind of “calcium beauty mark”, if you will, in the same part of her smile as I.

She contacts me this morning, after I’ve deleriously driven back from jury summons, says that it made her painfully happy to’ve listened to.

This was the friend who got me to be fucking loath to ever carry another sentence with the words “wish” or “hope” - not too long, following my successful gambit to eradicate “it” from the beginning of statements.

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