So Mrs ForTheDeaf and I have agreed something about our mortality. We’ve discussed who gets left what in our absence should we go at once together and we’ve talked about our wishes should one remain.
I’ve stipulated Jeff Buckley is to be played at my funeral and there must be no mention of the alpha or the omega.
She insists at hers, this should be played. I can’t bear to hear it anymore in case that awful day comes when I have to.
So an album I love… Macy Gray On How Life Is has become a dangerous emotional landmine.
She still plays the album from time to time. I can enjoy Why Didn’t You Call Me? and I Try. If It gets past Sex-O-Matic Venus Freak I start to get twitchy. Getting to Still takes some nerve and I’m out the door if you get near I’ve Committed Murder.
The Letter is a note from the beyond. It’s hopeful, it’s kind and it’s impossible for me to ever hear again… And I wish it to be so I never have to.
I’m not crying, you’re crying.