tell me dear are you lonesome tonight

pretty much, no one is ever going to beat elvis' sexuality. not even springsteen. not even brando. there are people like that in the world. people that die and are referred to in the paper as a "local beauty" local mystery local something. some part that makes the parts that beauty left behind feel apart of all that beauty and all that mystery.

things like this happen. and things like this are inevitable. and every sunday morning we walk to the street in our robes and find the faces in the newsprint. sometimes we know the faces. the older we get, the longer we stay static, the more faces we know. it is inevitable. calculated. the only part of all the parts of being human that one can rely on and still, we leave most things up to God or the like, often the like.


it is only when we used to know these faces and they are not in the newsprint, but instead pressing on in photographs and pressing on in small public dioramas. spaces we can navigate. haunts we know. the faces we become convinced we never really knew at all. and this part is definitely not so awful as the first, but it is still a ghost of a feeling, still a shake of the head. 


and it would be untrue to say that this second part, these walking ghosts, are more devastating than the real ones. or the ones we have lost and wish with all of our hearts still had the heart to haunt us. but the inevitable wait the inevitable silence that period of paces when you know something is pressing forward, some dark and tragic thing, and it becomes impossible to want. 


i suppose i could write in perfect parts what i mean. of all the people i have known and loved, they have all died in only three ways, but truly it is only the end part that matters and any forward momentum to that end part is like a knife to the heart.