My name is Eldritch. Weird Al Eldritch. Am I a ridiculous, gonzo, boho mofo? Not really. My name is a distraction. You know, to distract the Angel of Death. Maybe that’s too weird for you. Talk to my parents about it.
Love goes on forever. Somewhere. In Hollywood. Not in Bird In Hand, Pennsylvania. Whatever I think I have in my hand, might not actually be there. But if I open my hand, maybe the bird will escape? This kind of evanescence would have sent David Hume to an insane asylum. Where he could have hung out with my brother, who was told he was schizo and then started acting like he could talk to Shih Tzus.
I am not sure I like walking around in the outside world. I am very much into interior dialogue. It’s how I escape Pennsylvania, which is called the Keystone State. I am not the keystone species, meaning, if I disappeared, the ecosystem would not collapse and things would not change. Except for the bird which I am holding in my hand, which would presumably finally be liberated.
Someone, I dunno, a person with time on their hands, would write an effusive elegy, chock full of alliteration. Our weird friend wended a way well weighted with the waste of waves and wizards, woven with woe-begotten wealth and warmth. I wouldn’t want to hear a post-mortem eulogy that makes even less sense than my life, would you? I started out so bubbly, so effervescent, like a little gas giant, and now things are so attenuated, so etiolated, or, as the kids put it, so beta.