Acoustic strains thumbing at my neck. Everything is yellow and aspen.

What breaks me, though, is knowing that it ends with the music. After this song, Virginia will rasp out the last of its windows and evenings, and I will feel parted again.

I am afraid that one day, book spines won't move me. That the shiver of awe when a moth is blown in and caught burrowing against the window; it won't be enough to redeem me. A fatal ennui will remove all small ecstasies. How dependent I am, on the music. On stones breaking the surface of water. This curve of my insides that feeds on comets and handfuls of grass.