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aren't you guilty of our galaxy
aren't you staring down the mouth of it
aren't you sad for me
aren't you keeping under wing
aren't you tired of the dance
aren't you wishing for existence more than this
finding nostalgia in unexpected ways not in the camaraderie of a live show but in watching the singer's mouth move the glint of the drummer's gritted teeth as he plows through a rhythm the sweat gathered, glistened on the upper lip of the guitarist how close were we in the sea of it? arms flailing in shared sonic transportation crying out at the full depth of our lungs till our voices cracked vocal cords rippling impossibly in personal address to world weary bards all that's left are recordings all that's left is sitting on separate couches in separate rooms, in separate head spaces hindsight with a tint of jealousy for what seems lost to time absorbing with utter disbelief our carelessness burning at the luxury of large, loud, gatherings taken so passionately for granted but could we have tucked away the experience any more preciously having known?