The depression is a flu that will not abet. Most mornings, D drags himself into the living room on all fours. He lies face-down on the interlocking foam floor tiles, his upturned arms at his sides. The baby crawls over him, tugging his hair, drooling on his t-shirts. …
When I think about the singer at all, it’s usually because I had a dream about him. It’s amazing how the details are all still there in my brain, even fifteen years later: the rubbed-thin feel of his band t-shirts, the oakmoss notes in his cologne, the way his hair…
Aubrey Hirsch is a writer and comics artist living in Berkeley, CA. You can learn more about her at aubreyhirsch.com or follow her on Twitter: @aubreyhirsch.
