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because when I walk down the block with my whole library on shuffle blaring straight into my ears like I don’t plan on growing old, I’m listening to the sounds, not the words. When the next song comes on I’m hearing the synth in the back and the harmony hovering uneasily a third above it like it’s my first time, and I’m thinking that this master is terrific, that the vocals really fuck and the bass line rumbles so right, just rough enough, the rugged perfection of a bullseye, and I’m bopping my head along even though I’m in public and that’s corny, and I’m trying to remember the name of the band and I’m wondering why I ever stopped listening to this track so long ago and I’m smiling at the beauty of it all, the imbalanced twang of the final chord, the pavement fresh with hot rain, the smell of snails. And only when I’m home again and the song is over do I remember that you’re the one who played it for me first, you, who once knew me so well.