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Cannonball | Damien Rice
Still a little bit of your song in my ear
Still a little bit of your words I long to hear
You know that sometimes the best thing that you can do for yourself is drive. You pick a sunny Tuesday afternoon, point your front end due south, and go.
It feels like a punk rock kind of day. You take the Clash and the Ramones out of mothballs and along for the ride. You surprise yourself in that you still know every word to London Calling, but damned if it doesn’t all come back to you, along with some foggy recollections of keg stands and blow jobs in black lit rooms. God, who were you then. You simultaneously shudder and laugh out loud. You feel like you haven’t laughed out loud in a long time.
Before long the volume thins, and then dissipates entirely and you are virtually alone. It’s hard not to drive at least 20 over, and so you do. It’s almost worth a potential speeding ticket. The faster the mile markers come at you, the better you feel. It’s not that nothing matters, it’s just that there is nothing, anymore. Just a fast car, an open road, and a girl.
If only you had sent me postcards instead of texts. Then at least I would have had something I could tie together with a ribbon and tuck away in a drawer, something tangible that I could hold in my hands long after you left me with nothing left to hold. Something that won’t dissolve into ether like we did.
If this doesn’t say it all, I don’t know what does.