Her: “I can help. As long as I know you’re not bullshitting me.”

Me: “In what way would I be bullshitting you? And, for the record, what precedent have I set for bullshitting you in the past? I’m pretty sure I haven’t.”

Her: “Let me rephrase– I’m sorry you’re feeling lousy, Patrick. Let me know how I can help.”

Me: “My (our) strange Boston experience is having farther-reaching effects on my psyche than I thought it would, I think.”

Her: “Can you expand on that?”

Me: “All this music, from when I spent a lot of time wandering around alone there and stuff.
It’s doing weird things to my brain. Don’t know how to explain it, exactly.”

Me: “Sometimes when I think about it or talk about it I get this wave of melancholy, and sometimes I miss it, sometimes I don’t know.”

Me: “I’m not qualified to take a crack at what’s going on with me right now.”

Me: “It’s like: wandering around near my house in Cambridge at night listening to “Fuck the Universe” by Ryan Adams.
And: the ramp outside Whole Foods that we’d take to get to the delivery van.
And: you on the stairs of that house on Dana.”

Music does strange and terrible things to me, all the time. I should stop, but I can’t, or won’t.