(Or maybe he should try watercolor painting instead)

I have... I have Roger Daltrey singing Townshends’s After the Fire endlessly in the back of my head, in a kind of eternal loop that should come off as barely annoying at best but as it’s always the case with the likes of us it ends up sounding like the wail of a glam-rock, new-wave banshee first conjured so long ago, very likely during maiden screenings of a Miami Vice episode or another.

Hence the same old ghost of Sonny Crockett, ever present, always here, dragging the same old shackles over the tiles, the linoleum, the parquets, no, over the brand-new
laminate which replaced the bughaunted carpet you never got to see, clogged and coagulated for the posterity of eternity with its bleached out, dried up nonfat yogurt drippings or maybe, lord forbids, assorted body fluids.

It’s that same old ghost of Sonny Crocket, see, the patron saint of brokenhearts, his shield up, plenty dented, the toothmarks on metal invoking names long forgotten-- Kirsten, Franny, Gwen, Heather, Susan, Tess, the foreign chick from Norway, whasshername, yours of course, and the names piling on and on and on-- mostly 2007-2008 to blame, go figure the sheer promiscuity of those years-- but dating back, backdating in fact, reaching all the way to a select, almost virginal list of refugees from the 20th century-- but that’s not even the point, Lyla.

The point is, if could make it all rhyme, would that turn it into a poem?