he died today. frank. my grandfather. and the man with the patchwork heart was there. there to catch his last tear as it dripped down the man’s sorry face. there even after the old man had chased away every person that had dared to come close. the man thought he was chasing away demons. he missed the one demon that actually mattered; this demon that carefully put the old man’s last tear in one of the jars he had hanging off his belt.
“see, frank?
see what happens?”
the room watched silently with only a slight flutter of the dingy rotting curtains now and again. the couple of books on the shelves had fallen over long ago. the old man shut his eyes and slept. the man with the patchwork heart sighed and turned away. he shut the door to the old man’s one room apartment noiselessly, and as he passed the woman on the stairs she thought he was only a draft of wind. when he stepped onto the street he became just that.

that was my grandfather. that was san francisco. this is new york. a young man who is barely older then a boy is bent frantically over a desk in the corner of a small white room. he is writing songs for an album that will only sell 25 copies. he is so goddamn young, it hurts to watch his scribbles. he thinks big things; big things that will kill him one day. this is cody. this is the old man’s grandson. this is me. the boy looks up. maybe he is thinking of his grandfather. maybe he is not. he keeps writing. he turns a page. maybe this is a song. maybe this is a story.

but this isn’t the beginning.