“I wish I was over-exaggerating, but honestly, I’m an immortal when I’m with him.”
– A late-night email, summers ago
Some people settle for goodness, seek stranger solace in fiction. Others still search for their tall dark strangers, stumbling on small dark fears.
Me? I fell for an artistic archetype; we wrote each other alive.
He was the best friend with rock’n’roll yearnings, fingerless gloves and absinthe on ice.
He was the brooding anti-hero, unyielding as the rain we were racing through, spine-tingling silence and graveyard strolls.
He was the stormy-eyed composer whose fingers crafted symphonies, the breath beyond catharsis, the reason in recklessness, he was.
And through it all, he played our songs – in ocean caves and forest glens, in thunderstorms and blanket forts – songs that, to anyone else, must have sounded like a fantasy.