'guess i saw it my fevered sleep'

i'm not even sure which one you were. i think I may have you called you Conner. i never told you how much i liked the album. how i listened to it almost every day in Goa. how it made me cry. how it helped me cope. i guess i didn't want to sound like a fan. i wanted to play it cool. but I didn't have to. it's like we had known each other forever. i recognized it right away in your eyes. and your smile. whoever you were, it clicked right away. we were just hanging around the mothership, which was suddenly giant and never ending. we strolled past old vintage arcade games i was pleasantly surprised to see, because i could no longer remember how they had gotten there in the first place. you told me what heaters to turn up and which ones were useless altogether. you were apparently as much a landlord as you were a musician. we shared a torn cigarette. there were other people following us - my brother, Ange and others - but the conversation was really only between us two. even if they poked their heads over the skillet where you were cooking up some dal and some other dish with eggplant. even if they were all hanging on your every word. i mentioned your appearance on Q that day. you gave me one look and sigh that i instantly recognized. you had hated the guy, hadn't you? then why the sanitized twitter feed with the canned thank you? you laughed so hard i couldn't help but join in. in that fit of laughter everything made sense.  on the counter there was a picture of you and your mom. you looked a little younger there - an age i didn't recognize. this was apparently the picture that followed you everywhere. the one you looked at every night before you went on stage and played and sang your heart out. this simple picture was your strength. your honesty. just a smiling boy and his smiling mother.