Tomorrow is not tomorrow, but 11 days ago.
Tomorrow, the man who I put on a throne and looked up to at the young age of 22, is turning 63.
When he sat on that throne, looking down at me, disguising his melancholy and desolation with biting wit, he was 54.
He was where harmony out of conflict lived and I loved visiting. He looked like the Psycho house: tall and gray from weather. A corpse lived inside.
We talked about the moon a lot, love in youth, and not making ourselves more than we were.
The moon is always there and so is he. One day he will return to the sky. I will have to guess that he’s there, because no one will tell me. No one he knows, knows me.