Everything Reminds Me of Her, by Elliott Smith

You leave, and you think it is as if nothing had happened. But you know there is no nothing like forgetting: you walk that street and you can sense it, in the back of your mind, somewhere across the bone marrow of your spine. It can be a feeling that lasts for a mere two minutes and some seconds.

There is a light behind every guitar chord; a dark shroud around the empty-roomness of his voice. It's a brief snapshot, a guitar-and-voice-and-ink polaroid of those things-that-are-not-things that remind you of everything. It's difficult to accept it, but there's no need to lie about it; even when

The spin of the earth impaled a silhouette of the sun on the steeple

I am reminded, unavoidably, of her. It is, as a matter of fact, a question of light. Of those moments in which real life erupts into the present as a collection of memories made of tastes, textures, sounds and shivers. You may deny it, but there comes the moment in every one's life in which you have to accept it.

And you listen and you are reminded of those streets that have become forever meaningful. A song of memory and truth. Face it: you were so close, and you let it go...

Why are you staring into outer space, crying?
Just because you came across it, and lost it.