The voice of a lesser angel. A cherub among cherubs, but tattered.
The toy piano, Texas Instruments, blue, plunked.
The melody that unties the knots in the throat and soars over the most shocking and fragile passages one can narrate, spelling out a life, from a house of cards.
A push is fatal.
How can one offer to the world all of one's unarmed fragility?
Perhaps for others like you?
Those translated from their fragments carried them deep within. Feeling reassured, understood.
Moore, Fair, Kaplan. And Linkous, who could not cross his own ghosts unscathed.
That music could be this was unforeseeable. A calm expression of an unreasonable time, dedicated to the care of very small things. Small melodic cues to blush.
Small thoughts in the mouth of the calm sea. Unable to push a glass. Interrupted love dreams, foolishly scented with nettle.
«Hold me... /Like I always knew someone should, yes /... /Even if people say we're an unlikely couple /Oh, Oh, This is life /... /Live live live live live live live life /Oh, hope for the hopeless».
Johnston, so thin. So clear.
From "Story of an Artist" to "True Love Will Find You in the End". Trembling, more than breathing.
The world embraced the fortune of its most uncertain singer, with his green eyes.
Gone too soon.
When here he walked and hopped.
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