Last night Johnny Cash sang to me.
Despite interruptions in the form of a tickling throat, cough drops and hacking up a lung, his gentle but raspy voice crooned "Hurt", trying to lull my tired, sickly brain to sleep. His wrinkled, time-worn face swam in and out of focus during the lulls in my esophogal irritations. The slow lilt of the song playing over and over, merging all waking and sleeping moments into one eternal melody line. I kept trying to figure out how it was he died and took that voice with him.
Tonight I have downed some NyQuil in the hopes that I will catch more shut-eye than last night. It would be very nice of Johnny to come and sing to me again. But I kind of hope he feels like playing a different song.
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