I leave the city as I found it, with no one in the sky to sing to and no sidewalks to betray me. I leave the city as i found it, with gutters clogged with poets, heroes, and the charred remains of cigarettes. I leave the city as i found it, ravaged by secrets, listing in the rain, and under curfew. I leave the city as i found it, with my eyes wide open and my heart slipping through my hands.
In which a long-time record collector decides which albums to keep and which to cull, supplemented by other commentary
This is so good I wish I wrote it.
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