I have written a book. It is finished today. On your birthday. Purely by chance. (I didn’t know today was your birthday, forgive me.)
Naturally, the book is a book for children, about seagulls and the midatlantic and divorce and magic and poetry, and a breadbox, and… well, your songs.
The book is not for you. It is for my parents. But I couldn’t have written it without you, I don’t think. I owe you something. I stole a lot of lines from you to write this book. I stole a lot of feelings.
I only wish I could send you a copy.
I really really do.
Can I send you a copy?
“Is a dream a lie if it don’t come true?”
No, no it isn’t.