(˙ɔʇǝ) ˙˙˙oob,b qooظ,b oob oob,b qooظ,b oob oob
˙qooظ,b oob oob,b qooظ,b oob oob ‘snɹןɐʍ ǝɥʇ ɯɐ ı
˙uǝɯbbǝ ǝɥʇ ǝɹɐ ʎǝɥʇ ‘uɐɯbbǝ ǝɥʇ ɯɐ ı
˙ǝod uɐןןɐ ɹɐbpǝ buıʞɔıʞ ɯǝɥʇ uǝǝs ǝʌɐɥ pןnoɥs noʎ ‘uɐɯ
˙ɐuɥsıɹʞ ıɹɐɥ buıbuıs uınbuǝd ʎɹɐʇuǝɯǝןǝ
˙ɹǝʍoʇ ןǝɟɟıǝ ǝɥʇ dn buıqɯıןɔ ‘pɹɐɥɔןıd ɐuıןoɯǝs
˙buıʎɹɔ ɯ,ı
˙pǝıus ʎǝɥʇ ʍoɥ ǝǝs
‘ʎʇs ɐ uı sbıd ǝʞıן ǝןıɯs ʎǝɥʇ ʍoɥ ǝǝs
¿noʎ ʇɐ sɥbnɐן ɹǝʞoظ ǝɥʇ buıɥʇ noʎ ʇ,uop
’sɹǝʞoɯs buıʞoɥɔ ʇɹǝdʇxǝʇ ʇɹǝdxǝ
˙qooظ,b oob oob,b qooظ,b oob oob ‘snɹןɐʍ ǝɥʇ ɯɐ ı
˙uǝɯbbǝ ǝɥʇ ǝɹɐ ʎǝɥʇ ‘uɐɯbbǝ ǝɥʇ ɯɐ ı
˙uıɐɹ ɥsıןbuǝ ǝɥʇ uı buıpuɐʇs ɯoɹɟ
uɐʇ ɐ ʇǝb noʎ ‘ǝɯoɔ ʇ,uop uns ǝɥʇ ɟı
˙uns ǝɥʇ ɹoɟ buıʇıɐʍ uǝpɹɐb ɥsıןbuǝ uɐ uı buıʇʇıs
˙qooظ,b oob oob ‘snɹןɐʍ ǝɥʇ ɯɐ ı
˙uǝɯbbǝ ǝɥʇ ǝɹɐ ʎǝɥʇ ‘uɐɯbbǝ ǝɥʇ ɯɐ ı
˙uʍop sɹǝʞɔıuʞ ɹnoʎ ʇǝן noʎ ןɹıb ʎʇɥbnɐu ɐ uǝǝq noʎ ‘ʎoq
‘ssǝʇsǝıɹd ɔıɥdɐɹbouɹod ‘ǝɟıʍɥsıɟ ɹǝʞɔoןɐqɐɹɔ
˙ǝʎǝ s,bop pɐǝp ɐ ɯoɹɟ buıddıɹp ‘pɹɐʇsnɔ ɹǝʇʇɐɯ ʍoןןǝʎ
˙buıʎɹɔ ɯ,ı ‘buıʎɹɔ ɯ,ı
˙buıʎɹɔ ɯ,ı ‘buıʎɹɔ ɯ,ı
˙unɹ ʎǝɥʇ ʍoɥ ǝǝs ‘ʎʞs ǝɥʇ uı ʎɔnן ǝʞıן ʎןɟ ʎǝɥʇ ʍoɥ ǝǝs
˙ʍoɹ ɐ uı uǝɯǝɔıןod ǝןʇʇıן ʎʇʇǝɹd
buıʇʇıs uɐɯǝɔıןod ʎʇıɔ ɹǝʇsıɯ
˙qooظ,b oob oob ‘snɹןɐʍ ǝɥʇ ɯɐ ı
˙uǝɯbbǝ ǝɥʇ ǝɹɐ ʎǝɥʇ ‘uɐɯbbǝ ǝɥʇ ɯɐ ı
˙buoן ʍoɹb ǝɔɐɟ ɹnoʎ ʇǝן noʎ ‘ʎoq ʎʇɥbnɐu ɐ uǝǝq noʎ ‘uɐɯ
˙ʎɐpsǝnʇ ʎpooןq pıdnʇs ‘ʇɹıɥs-ǝǝʇ uoıʇɐɹodɹoɔ
˙ǝɯoɔ oʇ uɐʌ ǝɥʇ ɹoɟ buıʇıɐʍ ‘ǝʞɐןɟuɹoɔ ɐ uo buıʇʇıs
˙buıʎɹɔ ɯ,ı
˙ʎןɟ ʎǝɥʇ ʍoɥ ǝǝs ‘unb ɐ ɯoɹɟ sbıd ǝʞıן unɹ ʎǝɥʇ ʍoɥ ǝǝs
˙ɹǝɥʇǝboʇ ןןɐ ǝɹɐ ǝʍ puɐ ǝɯ ǝɹɐ noʎ sɐ ǝɥ ǝɹɐ noʎ sɐ ǝɥ ɯɐ ı
Also, I would be lying if I said this was not my absolute favorite movie from my childhood. Barring “Yellow Submarine,” which was actually my favorite of all time. (Not that it was from my childhood’s era, goddamn, I’m not even thirty yet.)
Yellow. Submarine. Mosaic. Bathroom.
I’d give that a moment to sink in, then you can see the rest.
A childhood favorite. Oh, the film was around 20 years old before I ever laid eyes on it, but I was hooked from the first moment. Best acid trip I never had.
The Beatles - Something
I was having a really awful time of it last night but I was aware enough to wake up my wife. Or maybe she woke up on her own. I don’t really remember. She held me for hours and reassured me. She sang several songs to me and while I don’t remember them all, I do remember this one. She had sung it to me years ago, after the first time we made love.
I don’t know much about the human brain, but something triggered my episode during that song so that the memory of us lying naked in each others’ arms came flooding back, my hallucinations were dampened slightly and I was able to hold my wife and cry and just think about how much I loved her. I love her. I love her.
I love you.
Thank you for always taking care of me.
In all honesty, I’m not sure if she meant to wake me up or not. I just know I woke up to K gently, but fervently petting my bared shoulder. I asked if she was okay a few times— sometimes she has insomnia or just a bad dream —but when she didn’t answer and instead started weeping, I knew what was really wrong.
As much as I enjoy singing, I’m self-conscious enough about it to not inflict it upon other people. I do know, though, that K has professed how much she has enjoyed it (for better or worse), so I don’t worry about singing in front of her. It’s something that helps to break the negative cycles her mind gets into, and I’m all too happy to quietly embarrass myself for her.
I love you, too. More than you’ll ever know.
