I:
Dead.
For some reason Judy Garland’s “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas” sent me into convulsions.
Or maybe it was Otis Redding’s “White Christmas” that had me choking on clear liquid that poured down like buckets from my eyes.
Something about next year and troubles disappearing like a fox into the snowy night.
It was probably Darlene Love’s “(Baby) Please Come Home for Christmas” that disintegrated what physical form that remained.
Still grabbing and cowering.
Dead.
BLONDE ON BLONDE 