elliott smith

watching again dawn and clara and francesca dancing on stage, knowing that this is prolly the last time they will ever dance together. meditating, how sad that this must end! how sad that this must end! and oh what a terrible thing to end, to fade into the back of the stage, to become relics, strangers from the past, saying goodbye, with unrelated dancers on an unrelated stage. and oh! what a terrible thing it is to watch it end, sneaky j3's with watchful eyes that recognise the recycled medfac cheerleading skirts and recycled dance moves. and then somemore, oh how terrible, it must be, to be j4, and to fade into the night - no flowers to give, no friends to cheer for and no cheap exchanges. instead, they stand together with faithful friends and watch as rituals are re-enacted, the rituals they had once been part of.

and who but us will remember our late nights? without memorials, without stories translated and retold, will not our sweat and laughter dissolve into naught? who will remember, at the end? who is ready for the end?