Degeneracy pressure and cheeeeeese, baby.

(He spent decades teaching me astronomy so I would be uncharacteristically bright and all I wanted to do was listen to him sing. Just fucking sing to me, that's all I ever want.)

She climbs into bed, pull the covers overhead and turns her little radio on
She's has a rotten day so she hopes the DJ's gonna play her favorite song
It makes her feel much better, brings her closer to her dreams
A little magic power makes it better that it seems

Yesterday I heard a song I haven't heard since I was nine. It was one Loch used to sing to me, and he'd strum his (salvaged and now long gone in the fire) guitar along with the words. I thought he wrote it. I thought he was a genius and was going to throw away all that talent for the amusement racket. (See, he played me all kinds of songs but he had never performed one cold before.)

He downplayed it to the point where we both forgot about it, and in later years if I brought up that song again he feigned confusion over what I tried to describe since I only knew a line or two. I figured it was gone. I wondered if it was an actual memory or something I imagined.

Then I heard the song yesterday on the Triumph album and I busted him and he downplayed it again, saying it made him think of me so he learned it to play for me but was surprised that I liked it so much, and was afraid to tell me it was a song off the radio.

He was fifteen years old and just trying to impress a girl, after all.

I told him the only way he could have impressed me any more than he does (present-tense) is if he performs Killing Time for me on the spot. Like, now, if you please.

Naw, Peanut. You already know I didn't write that song. It wouldn't be the same. 
 

Sure it would.