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Tuesday, December 8, 2015

Jacob Alias


When the music's over, turn out the lights.

When the music's over, turn out the lights.

Is the music over, Jacob Alias? What do you hear now, as you wither behind sterile cinder block walls and trace the spaces between the cold steel bars...your crime, spreading joy for the hopeleas-loving the loveless. Fear not compadre...your years are young.

I hear nothing...the sweet deafening sound of nothing as I draw a deep breath from the icy air and trace the long shadows of my embittered wife with the blood of a dying heart. My crime, stealing joy from the delicate garden of her heart...loving her loveless soul.



When the music's over, turn out the lights.



Was it over for dear Jim, tbe lost lonely Door, as he slipped lazily down the drain at last, back into the womb of the LA Woman?



Dear friend, our song begins to end the moment it hits the turntable. Our hearts begin to break with the first beat...our lives begin to end the very second we are born.



I know this also to be true, Jacob Alias...



It is not time that kills us with its heavy thoughtless march. No, the sour, often subtle songs of life are what kill us as we bide our time in this mad world...the sudden dissonant dives that slice through our symphony, shattering the movement, carrying us, breathless, ever closer to the barren earth from which we came. For a time we dust ourselves off, rebuild, rewrite, rise from the dead. We crawl again, we walk again, we love, we fuck, we fly again. We crash again. And again. Then comes the hour, Jacob Alias, for each of us, when the music's over. Then comes the final dawn when the sunlight no longer aids our vision, but merely burns our eyes and dries up our dreams. I am a parched and blind drunkard on a Sunday morning. If I cannot taste her love again then let me remain this way.



I told you old friend...I cannot love anymore. I cannot even fuck..I can't be bothered. I do not care that I cannot love or fuck. Should  I care that I do not care?



I am writing you now (forgive my selfish intent) for fear that soon I will have no words to say. When that day comes I am merely a ghost, Jacob Alias, that has passed through you and left, like a momentary autumn chill.

When that day comes, dearest friend. the music is over...turn out the lights.