Death by Rock and Roll...

"You know those bands.... those bands who make a record or a song or play a show so god damn good you figure they don't need pussy, drugs, or any form of human enthusiasam or triumph to feel any sort of joy? The kind that make you go 'If I were them, I could die happy knowing I was in a band this good. No regrets or fear, I've completed my destiny and now I should die.' You know?" He was chewing a piece of gum furiously. Half of me was so concentrated on the tiny bit of flavored rubber swishing back and forth between his nicotine stained teeth I barely realized he was speaking to me. One tooth looked like an arrow head. The embarrassingly outdated microphone in my hand shook slightly.
"Yes." I said.
"We can only hope." he smiled. The tiny lines between his teeth oozed solos in every vessel of my blood. "Was that good?" he asked.
"...that... was perfect." I responded. I thanked him and walked away, the mechanical box a treasure chest and the tape inside precious cargo, irreplaceable by time or man. The voice that sang a thousand songs, a thousand sixty four words deep in my pocket. Every one poetry. Suddenly neither the time wasted standing outside waiting for a ticket to a sold out show or the freezing cold, scraping at my lungs, made a difference. My heart beat in times faster than any drum beat and my toes were curled up inside my shoes. Every hair on the back of my neck stood, pins in a pincushion.

Oh yeah there, there goes your skull and bones, talking through your broke telephones. Will they play as you fall? The bathroom stall.