I burned a perfectly good steak tonight; I guess my heart wasn't in it. Ate it anyway because, y'know, it was dinner so what the hell.
I drank a beer, and ate my charred steak, and cried over Sports Night, again.
It sounds crazy, but there's something strangely romantic about that particular set of circumstances, like the emotional typhoon that'd be created by Chet Baker and Edward Hopper meeting under a street lamp in the old age that Baker never reached and Hopper never acknowledged. Baker goes, 'this reminds me of a song, but I can't remember the words," and Hopper goes, "It wouldn't sound the same. Better off in your head."
And Hopper goes home and creeps down to his basement and tries to wash the arthritis out of his hands with paint thinner, maybe puts a record on the turntable. And Baker goes and gets a cuppa coffee in a corner diner and thinks about maybe getting some pie.
I'm saying, it'd be sad if it wasn't so romantic.