I�m listening to fragments of Jeff Buckley.

I saw him play in D.C. in the early 90s, before he�d released any albums. I went to the show because I loved Tim Buckley, his father. I wish I could be in that time again. His voice�you can feel it in the back of your throat, soft against the back of your knees. This voice begs you to sit down and listen, to be consumed. He�s dead now, of course. How strange is memory�I can clearly hear him sing that Leonard Cohen song, �Hallelujah,� and I long to be in his presence again, hearing him sing that. I want to see him sing �Corpus Christi.�

Also on my mind: I want to hear Will Oldham sing in his low broken voice about the devil and about Old Jerusalem and mountain women. I listened to him first (as Palace Brothers) with Bauer, who I thought I loved. We drank anisette (gross, yes) and stayed up all night on a pull-out bed and later, Bauer slept curled next to me and talked loud and strange in his sleep. I wrote it all down somewhere.

I am washed in nostalgia and regret. This whole thing could have been much different.