just some avant-garde dog songs, probably

So first of all, this is a thing.

All I can say is, major props to Laurie Anderson and all similar canine-music enthusiasts, also every single cussing experimental composition supporter who turned up with his/her golden retriever to appreciate the beauty and wonder of this exhibition of utter brilliance.

Soph approves.

I don't remember what she was wearing, but I remember when she told me about Avant-garage - we could've been in her car, in that strawberry red-truck with soft seats and the incredible, incredible aux cord that gave us access to everything from Vampire Weekend to Taylor Swift to Muse to Macklemore, or it could've been her house on 700 North, in the tiny kitchen with something savory cooking on the stove - simmering in some kind of herb I can't remember

11pm, we'd still be sipping tea on those wooden chairs, listening to the Gossip Girl soundtrack and talking about Leighton Meister's yellow dress and the boy that's so hung up on her and I remember the henna on my hands, rubbing it into Gwen's hair, I remember laughing about the drug smell and the nasty mud-like slime congealing on our hands

I remember the One Direction posters and the anime postcards scattered among books about constellations and post-world-war Japan; the rabbit in the closet, sharing dresses and jackets, staying there past midnight and hugging my knees on Mary's bed, feeling so cussing safe I never wanted it to end

I miss the fragility and simplicity of college being an abstract idea, a far-away entity that enwrapped my caretakers, that brought them warmth that I felt through their fingertips, that gave them light and concerts and shadow-scattered tinfoil in freshman art portfolios;

I miss the future the way I used to see it, an eternal kitchen with tea whistling on the stove and a laptop blazing with only the things I loved

I miss the people who made me feel like I could reach out and touch them - all those evasive coming years of mine.