Listening to the Slack Album, probably the first time in over a couple'o'years, reminds me of driving around San Diego, buying expensive clothes for Camille and eating pastries. It's funny, when we're given a pure shot of memory into our veins from a particular song or smell or taste, it erases all the grim bitterness of repression and false polish of nostalgia and gives us unvarnished truth. When it's good, it floods your senses and brings tears to the inner canthus. When it's good, our brain yells and attempts to lock it away, pin it in back down into the depths where the distance and the haze can keep it locked away. It also takes away the sting of loss, because even if I wanted to go back there, go back there with her, I don't need to cause I have the memory, I've had that experience.
I may have a terrible recall, but, that's just so it can all come rushing back and give me the best high a man can ask for.
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