One out of three songs heard on shuffle tonight makes me think about the time we walked through the ankle-high grass with the stars at our backs. Six out of seven sleepless nights has me writhing in the tangles of it—caught up in the endless knots. Five out of my ten fingers ball themselves up in endless fists, white knuckle all of the memories, and they’re not over yet. I know that. But these neon greens ticking backwards have me reeling, wrap my fingers around the notion that, well, I guess I could pick up the phone and call you just to hear the message machine cut me back down a few notches, since you’re never really there (but I won’t (I (promise I) won’t)).