On Tom Verlaine.

To my hero who coloured my blood and popluated my mind with winding phrases of love and loneliness and dreams, who I will carry on every day living as he inadvertenfly taught me. With the sure and shot fire wit and illusionary expression, with his modesty and love of old bookshops, and his limbs like a swan. “The most beautiful neck in all of rock’n’roll.” —

There will never be a human soul quite like Tom, a man with a voice and control on words so as to make them weapons, or strings, or arrows of love. Voice like a gentle elastic stretching over the future - a cross-dimensional love affair of the days long gone and the days yet to come. A stylist who drew from ancient instruments revolutionary, piercing edges.

Words like night skies and impressionist sentiments coiling around syllables - an ordeal of a time traveler craving peace and caught in the toils of chaos.

These damp street-light dotted nights and thee cool of a breeze throughout will forever be married to the prose, the life, the expression of Tom Verlaine. The man who taught me, in many ways, to breathe.

Much like the tumultuous love affair the man whom he named himself after endured, he, too, will be a legend whose tales will echo throughout indefinitely.

I don’t like to say goodbye, so instead I’ll say - see you in my dreams.