Barry and I shared a secret blog. We'd put things in there to hold on to, sort of a junk drawer for our lives. I am trying really hard not to comb it now, because it makes me far too sad. Here's an entry from him. RIP, Bu. Aw, hell, this is hard, so hard.

    Tuesday, February 14, 2012

all the bright-eyed choke on ambition
and the old folks circle their graves
and the young ones are busy destroying their names
and you're still just wasting away
i sit and watch the screen for a message
some kind of sign that says we're okay
but the screen stays blank til i turn the thing off
and wait for my conscience to break
so, so, so
it's so damn slow

and i hope you're learning to listen
and i hope you're learning to stay
and i hope you find what you're missing
and i hope that you're making your way
but i'm a headcase if i don't keep moving
and my head hurts if i don't sit still
it's an itch that i'll never stop scratching
it's a hole that i'll never quite fill
so

- "insomnia," electric president

this is one of those songs that makes me think there might be another mu out there, and he or she wrote it to another bu.