That's pretty much the only entry in here that references Doc, discloses the fear of my impending hopelessness, the fear that this journal would be so burdened underneath the past it would never glitter again. Not crystal under the waves or streaks of lightning in the sky, just broken glass under a mountain of trash.
Suffice to say I like the fact that didn't happen. I love the fact I can write in it again, about you, because it is you. That I can hear the song and not only feel like I used to hearing it, but sing it to you because it's ours now. The past is wiped away and with everything we are doing to ourselves and our bodies it steps in line with the other nightmares you wake me up from with your touch.