we’ve lost sir patstew, one of the greats, and somehow the world feels a little less extraordinary without you in it.
like, what do u mean i got to live thru all this in real time? what do u mean i have to eventually refer to it as “back then”? absolutely rancid news. i’m grateful beyond my own vocabulary, which is frankly a shit little inventory to begin with.
s’funny how a buncha strangers can crawl under ur skin like old ghosts n make a home there. you lot turned these rooms into sweat-soaked cathedrals, made all my ugly lil frequencies feel less like screaming into the void.
zombies tour officially bit the dust n left me w/ a headful of feedback squeal. every last date sold clean out, every city took a piece of me n gave me some unholy little relic in return. to the freaks who crossed borders, went feral in queue purgatory:
london n its dreary lil freakshow, me in mourning-net finery lookin’ like a victorian faintin’ spell w/ a nicotine grievance. then ayra comes along n i’m all soppy-gobbed, clingy as a bloody burr, grinnin’ like an idiot who’s been let outta the attic.
