My 11-year-old son thinks Imagine Dragons is the greatest band in the world. Maybe ever. I learn about his new passion in the most disturbing way.
I’m supposed to be on my way to Timbuktu, not stuck here, listening to a man sing about the place
I assume you have a regular route on your nightly rounds, those eagle eyes scanning for any lock popped daringly up like a gopher from its hole.
The idea that relationships are verses in the song of a life, or that grace notes can be found in ruined loves, struck a chord of latent sentimentality.
When I was young, I never kept a journal. Instead, my understanding of the world—and myself within in it—got wound up in 500-plus battered tapes that have followed me through life.
