Sometimes songs are just algorithmic reverberations.

.
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Sometimes they are more.  Much more.  They arrive dappled in soul blood.

I can sense the difference.  Or so I say.

Wounded.  Initially.  She was.  I could tell.  Struggling with... things... since then.  Girls are such... girls.  Yeah.  I have watched songs pop in accordance to various things I have written.  As a pianist might hear an accompanying fiddle, cello, or choral backing... real or imagined but reasonably so.  I didn't write to receive, it merely happens... sometimes.




To be fair, you weren't playing in a fair fight or against standard equipment.  No joke.

I think this was both an accusation... acceptance... and trust in that Frankendifference.  She seemed to not care to know or care.  What she has, has known, hasn't worked.

Too late for this, for either of us.  It's the thought that counts?

Perhaps a strange hope, or the unrequited continuation of love?

An iota of wisdom?  Just... go...

in peace.