Well, perhaps in a way. The past. The mad past.
My archives. Lyrics, tour dates, romantic conquests, passports, love notes, inheritance documents, birth certificate, my son’s first step, my marriages. My first astrological chart (unerringly accurate), ancient artifacts of vulgarity and beauty… the bureaucracy mixed with the toxicity of a redemptively degenerate life. The bullet dodger, the fluidity of escape from entanglements galore.
My memory yields to the melody of danger and radiance… the faded photographs of androgony and dissolution. The solution to all confusion of course was, and will forever be, you.