here_and_there raze each year of your unmaking crowns the roof of a house you never lived in. i count seven. in the end, you could still sing, but you'd miss a line here and there or lose your place in the middle of songs that were once as much a part of you as the tongue between your teeth. offstage, friends would meet your eyes, and you couldn't say who they were or why they looked like mourners who were late for some sad ceremony they would have given anything to avoid. loss is just a sunken smile to someone who's forgotten how to feel. 240507 what's it to you? who go blather from