seven.

he knew the difference between the verge, the brink, and the edge. he defined them relatively simply with each beat on each word rustling up connotations that we all ignore too frequently.

we were all different then. latest masterpieces, fruitful travail, and we all held them in such esteem that we couldn't help but to live peeking around their shadows.

this harshness, this stale reality, poignant from an all too kindhearted massacre that took place seven months ago today opens tightly corked bottles and drowns any stability i had left to lift the whiskey to my mouth.

we were all different then. the pressures of immortality and invincibility were the only rifts in our fresh minds. nowhere to go but up, no one to hold but each other, no time to worry about anything but where to find our next meal.

we toast to rock'n'roll with this sadness like my mom's dining room, done up in watered down greens and tans and too far back to receive any sunlight. when i look at the drink in front of me, i toast, clinking glasses with only air and smoke, to rock'n'roll, to that age old music that soothes the soul. my mind rips with "drift away" and sings along with all the songs he was always surprised i knew.

we were all different then.