I leaned fixated, swooning with my neck adjusted; my hair swept cleanly to the deafer shoulder. Never having heard a more flawless peice of dry desert, sensual rat pack sound this entire summer, I could only futher hope that a punishing calliope would climax the softening Texan music. Eddie Dean trickled steadily and cleanly; none compared to the Glosup. During these times of bereavement following my divorce from the contours of academia and the curriculum of a relationship, I found myself unexpectedly suckling the elixirs of former passions. Pushing past the crêpe fabric gown of this irenic tune, I noticed myself naively tapping along to staffs strung upon fingers much more sinister. Unsettled, I continued tearing away the chiffon curtains, revealing the tragic curdling of events. Belied beneath charming feminine flutists, was the echo of a man lost in the sun-dried valley of Texas desert, abandoned by his frightened horse. The horse and rider parted Somwhere along the great divide Though some may say he's livin' I know for sure he died. This once curvaceous, succulent body of a modest western I suddenly found crouching and stridently demonizing my interpretation. Shot down yet again, I felt my chest tighten into a violent upward heave. Exhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Remembering my once inspirationally-fulfilling and self-oriented affair with the Eddie Dean Glosup, it's clear that music numbers are not the same after my diagnosis. These coveted and former emblems of pride- my former decisive reasoning skills, availed maturity, and barriers to humiliation- dispatched unevenly and cowardly towards nothingness in a matter of months. Like hot butter on Nevadan pavement, I had once compared. (unfinished)