Yours was the shining voice. The better way. You had the fault of forgiveness. The despair of desire. You fed beauty to the faithless. Memories to the martyrs. And longing to those who were easily distracted. You who mastered the language of loneliness and love, i keep trying to sing your songs as if they were mine. As if that were enough. As if it were my duty. As if you could ever be forgotten
In which a long-time record collector decides which albums to keep and which to cull, supplemented by other commentary
