No one tells you when you’re 24 taking MySpace pictures in your dad’s bathroom that you can’t go back to that moment ever again. You can’t go back to owning the tin can death trap car with the horn that goes off at 6 a.m. randomly after you’ve stayed up til 2 a.m. reading the Chuck Klosterman book a boy you like gave you.
No one tells you to savor that moment when you hear your dad’s shoeless footsteps down the stairs asking you what you’re watching on television only to leave the room awkwardly to make a snack in the kitchen. You smell the oil in the frying pan. You think that mayo is gross. You hear him humming and going back up the stairs.
No one tells you to soak that in before it’s all something you can’t stop thinking about in a music hall in Cleveland - evoked by smoke and music that happened around that time.
No one tells you time stops only for the dead.