There are tracks I can’t anymore now that you’re gone. There is no prose to be done about it. Play any song from Fading Trails, the only album I have here on my family’s farm in southern Georgia; play “The Old Horizon.” You had fingertip pressed down upon the something inside. Everyone who knew you knew the demon-art-life-stuff too great you succumbed to much too young. Every bottle in my speedrack I wiped down nightly I named. Only you could understand this in this way. How everything you do, even the dark shit, forms a love song. It carries reverb: big black eyes to hide my secrets in. Every car in the parking lot you hurl your body into, freeze-framed forever in the keylight spotshine of your hometown. Son of Lorain, Ohio, places even the word and a chord couldn’t heal. I am reminded of how altogether fragile it is when listening. On some solitary road trips, to be peopled with you would be wrong, I do and realize the threshold of verse I am back up against all day, a friend you will forever care too much for. You have need to get it down. They move to cities or give up. The space left is akin to the western skyline, blood sunsets nightly in a dirt town we praise as saints, erect altars to.