Goodness knows it's been a wonderful run
The autumn lakes where the children have swum
Your mother's convictions and
Your father's predictions
Don't seem so insane
They laugh, they say
Your treasure's a fake, but don't throw it away

And you've been framed with a beautiful name
And you've been saved, but you lost your head
With halos and praise
The trinity saves
But three's a crowd
You flirt, you drink, you can't stop your winkin'
At the boys at the bar

All you need is a gun and a car
A country song if you don't have the heart
My cowboys and injuns
And their palsied old minions
Well the highways are far
And don't you know, your shadow's a ghost
Don't let it scare you away.

--Beulah from their album When Your Heartstrings Break. Lyrics subject to speculation.

If I could end any relationship exactly where I wanted to (assuming, of course, that every relationship must end), I'd choose the highest point, the part where you look over at someone at night and think to yourself, "This is it. This is the one. We're never going to leave each other, ever."

Of course, this is irony at its most base. In fact, if one actually does leave at this point it's not truly irony (because it's intentional, you see) but, rather, a very cynical brother of common sense.

We were driving down Highway 1, en route from Monterey to Santa Barbara to kill a weekend and see some old friends of mine. Every once in a while I'd break my attention from the winding seaside road to look over and see her sleeping or staring dreamily at the Pacific Ocean. The sun was caught playing unashamedly in her auburn hair, setting our world on fire with giddiness.

That was summer, not long -- maybe a month or so -- after we had met, and we were close, so close, almost "too close for a lover" as the song goes. Occasionally, she'd look over at me and smile, run her fingers through my hair (it was much longer then), and then turn back to the ocean, flying in her mind with seagulls, dipping and swooning over miles of beaches.

The tape would flip over and mogwai would start playing, a change in pace from Beulah's manic chords. "I love... this music," she would say in this fainting sigh.

Everything was perfect and warm, and nothing would ever go wrong.

Log in or register to write something here or to contact authors.