I'm in love with your eyes.

I'm 38 years old and moving house. Always moving. It's been a good winter. Not rained and all the cheery blossoms are out.

I'm dragging out the last of my things. it's after 2 in the morning and I have to pick up the truck at nine. 62 hours on the mats this week and I feel like a little kid.

I don't want you to expect anything from me. You remember what happened last summer when I kind of fell off the end for a little bit. It could easy happen again. You know how it works.

I got friends. Don't worry. They been coming by and dropping off things. I'm paying back my dad and the guys at work bought me and the wife a night downtown. The other wives are going to sit with our boys.

We'll go out to dinner and to The Clyde for drinks. Maybe we'll both get a minute of silence. I don't know.
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I wonder if my sons would like to row out on the river. We were talking about having fat bastard kids, or Lacrosse boys, or Crew boys. The loneliness of a long-distance runner boys.

I've been wild enough for all of us and look where we landed. I want them to know how to sharpen a knife, keep the fingernails clean, lap in a valve. Play push hands. Run a mile all ruddy and blonde.
Dance the way they do now without giving two shits what anybody thinks about it.

Some things don't have to exclude the others.