Goodnight Eileen, it's what drunk people say when they're looking for their brown coats or they're painting in the kitchen. It's what you'll overhear when suddenly it smells like soap and cigarettes in the record-shoppe. It's what I'm trying to remember while I'm cold and my pants are still wet from tripping in the snow. It's what I'm doing instead of fixating on the baroque way that your living room looks. I'd feel guilty but you insisted, so I'm sitting here by myself under a muddy looking reading lamp. It's too tall and two of its bulbs are just dim widgets sans bloom. It wasn't a very long walk but it was deep and I'm super cold now. Lets say, rather than a scrolling line that suddenly bursts into flames, let's say instead that we imagine this narrative is a singular voice of reason and it's completely composed of togetherness. It's as though it has one purpose that will be revealed in an amaz...