I’m listening to a dead man’s CD. He made it on a Fisher-Price recorder. He’s been dead a while now. I never knew him.
The deep dark hole inside
Hmm hmm hmm
The deep dark hole inside
But I did know him, understand? His genius is depressing. I’ll never make music like the dead man. I’ll never be that haunting even when I’m dead. It’s beautiful. It makes me never want to write again. It makes we want to give up, but in a good way, ya know?
I feel like a burglar broke into my house and stole something I didn’t even know I had. I’m wondering if it took me years to find it, it doesn’t matter though ‘cause now it’s gone.
He’s in this big tree in the backyard playing his guitar on the most bottom branch; singing and swaying in the breeze. I’m pretty sure he is anyway.
The dead man was my friend.
The dead man makes music for the dead.
Please, listen to his song.
Tyler Strittmatter 