Songs are kinda like poems, right? I mean, they rhyme.

I've got reservations
About so many things
But not about you.
Not about you.
~the incomparable Wilco

I see I used the word "incomparable". (I left this post and came back to it about 20 minutes later.) In a moment of silliness I used it. It's the word you throw out when you need to throw a word about a band, an artist, something that moves you. It would be insufferably prideful or at least blindly fallacious to say anything is incomparable. For example, the weather today, albeit blessedly invigorating, I could compare to every other Easter Sunday I've lived through (if I could remember them). My memory is quite faulty these days--purposefully and accidentally. I own it, as I own the names of two people who aren't comparable (certainly not to each other), and of them I was thinking when this song came on.

Man, I love this song.

Is this an escapist plea? I dont' know. But it's got me thinking of future vacations, and I love vacations. http://www.last.fm/music/Joseph+Arthur. Click on the link for "Enough to Get Away"

What's the difference from a Saturday night
Where the light spreads dark around the drunk hearts
In their headless hallways where bodies are put on the market place
To happiness endlessly taking pills
With the young going downI see nothing or nowhere
I know what I've found must be in paradise
Next year we will live in the country
With our money, by day the sky builds
Doing our laundry and renting us some random machines
Getting our religion and sex on the TV
Assumptions made simply to get away
Everyone old is already with me
On tiny decks enjoying midsummer weather and friendly company
And in their picture frames there you and I will be knowing what we've found
Enough to get away
Knowing what we've found
Enough to get away
Knowing what we've found
Enough to get away
Knowing what we've found
Enough to get away
Bright drops of blood so my thoughts are
I turn to lie down but sleep stays far
I'm just an echo of the song going through my head
The light behides the ghost
But I'm the one that's dead
And I think of who you be
When you're here with me
Maybe it's a spiritual disease
Sliding through shoots of oblivion into infinity
Back into our maker's hands
No more rain or controversy
Knowing what we've found
Enough to get away
Knowing what we've found
Enough to get away
Knowing what we've found
Enough to get away
Knowing what we've found
Enough to get away