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Fundamentally we’re repairmen. Everybody’s broken. Everybody’s broken somewhere. You can’t get through life without it. And you’ve paid your artists and your filmmakers and your poets and your novelists to be, basically they’re your handymen, your repairmen. And we’re willing to go into this garage where all this junk is lying around, and we start to tinker away, you know, and we try to come up with something that assists you and when you contextualise and make small sense of, of those things, they…I don’t know, they, they very, they just start to repair those little pieces of you. You’re never finished, you know, but that’s the real mechanism of writing.
Bruce Springsteen in an interview on E Street Radio, January 10, 2014 (via 1960sredhead)


Typewriter Series #756 by Tyler Knott Gregson

Text for Tired Eyes:

I want rainfall and I want your hair soaked in it.  I want green grass and light pouring in through tree branches and slow steady steps towards me.  I want the sound of nothing when it’s shared with you, I want to gasp as nothing always becomes something when your hand is in my hand and the night unfolds.  I want movies that play as we don’t bother watching them and I want kisses in the back of the theater when we forget people can see. I want popcorn spills and candy hands and the stillness we swear lives around us.  I want the noise rustling grocery bags make when you try to squeeze them to all be carried in one trip and I want the fullness of pantry shelves and I want the standing with hands on hips and long stares into them to unearth the secret of what dinner will consist of.  I want the slow motion fall of hair that was cut and I want the chuckling laughter when you cut a spot too short.  I want to watch the broom sweep back and forth and forth and back and I want to hold the dustpan to catch the cast aside pieces of me you no longer thought I needed.  I want your feet in my hands and my thumbs sore from pressing out the hours you spent on them.  I want laughter that comes on so suddenly that everyone around us thinks our tears are of sorrow and our breath abandoned us like we were sinking ships and the sea was filled with lifeboats.  I want to be the mirror that watches you disapprove of yourself and I want to be the voice that comes in at the perfect moment to say how beautiful the exact spot you didn’t know I knew you were staring at is.

Part Three.

I just…can barely breathe.


We struggled together, and sometimes, we struggled with one another. We bathed in the glory, and often, the heartbreaking confusion of our rewards together. We’ve enjoyed health, and we’ve suffered illness and aging and death together. We took care of one another when trouble knocked, and we hurt one another in big and small ways.

But in the end, we kept faith in each other. And one thing is for certain: as I said before in reference to Clarence Clemons—I told a story with the E Street Band that was, and is, bigger than I ever could have told on my own.

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