it’s time

Whenever I hear “Fred Jones Part 2” by Ben Folds, I sob. Sometimes there are tears, and sometimes not. Today there were tears.

Fred sits alone at his desk in the dark there's an awkward young shadow that waits in the hall he has cleared all his things and he's put them in boxes things that remind him that life has been good twenty-five years he's worked at the paper a man's here to take him downstairs and "I'm sorry, Mr. Jones, it's time" there was no party and there were no songs 'cause today's just a day like the day that he started and no one is left here that knows his first name yeah, and life barrels on like a runaway train where the passengers change they don't change anything you get off someone else can get on and "I'm sorry, Mr. Jones, it's time" the streetlight it shines through the shades casting lines on the floor and lines on his face he reflects on the day Fred gets his paints out and goes to the basement projecting some slides onto a plain white canvas and traces it, fills in the spaces he turns off the slides and it doesn't look right yeah, and all of these bastards have taken his place he's forgotten, but not yet gone and "I'm sorry, Mr. Jones" and "I'm sorry, Mr. Jones" and "I'm sorry, Mr. Jones, it's time"

After I was good and soggy, I went to replay it and the CD now refuses to play that track. I’m taking this as a sign. Of what, I’m not sure yet.

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I acknowledge that I live and work on stolen Cowlitz, Clackamas, Atfalati, and Kalapuya land.
I give respect and reverence to those who came before me.