And that?That’s morning music, reminding you that you can survive it all because if you fuck it up, you’ll have another chance tomorrow.
“I Melt with You”—Modern English
This song always makes me feel like I’m walking toward something meaningful.There’s hope without pretending things are perfect.
The chorus hits like adrenaline for your soul—like if you move fast enough, maybe you can rewrite something.
Like: yes, the world is falling apart, but there’s still something—or someone—worth reaching for.It’s momentum with heart.
Call it caffeine for the soul.
“This Must Bethe Place (Naive Melody)” —Talking Heads
First of all—can we talk about how so many songs from this era are titled like they couldn’t commit?One name isn’t enough, so they add another in parentheses, like a backup personality.Something like, ‘Oops, I thought this was it, but now that it’s out in the world, let’s give it something extra.’
But honestly?“Naïve Melody” fits.
The melody is naive.It loops.It meanders.It feels like it’s stumbling over its own feet a little—but never completely falls.It’s just this steady, almost awkward rhythm of someone trying to believe in comfort, or love, maybe even belonging.
The lyrics are simple to the point of almost sounding unfinished.But that’s the genius of it.They aren’t trying to impress.They’re trying to believe there’s more.
It sounds like home without knowing what home is.
In the morning—especially mornings like this—I need the reminder that peace can be strange and quiet and earned.I have to remember how to be a person, and that works for me.
“Let My Love Open the Door”—Pete Townshend
This one’s a bit more direct.He’s offering you hope, a four-leaf clover, and a way to take away your worry.Love might be what opens the door.Will love cure my problems?
Probably not, but it gives you hope that even when the world hurts, a pet is showing up for you.And sometimes it’s nice to pretend the song is the world saying that.Or someone who doesn’t need you to explain anything, just ...show up and breathe.
Anyway.That’s my morning soundtrack.
Five songs to slap the existential dread off the counter and maybe, just maybe, leave the house like it’s going to be the best day of your life.
If you’ve got better (or weirder) ones, I’ll take them.
Or maybe just one song—one track to drag today into something nearly worth it.
ChapterForty-Eight
Kit
May 15th, 1997
I stare at the computer while trying to rememberthePete Townshend song.When I begin to hum it and recall the lyrics, it makes me smile.It reminds me of what just happened between Cleo and Barret.
That ...offer he made.It’s almost as if he cracked open some invisible door and handed her a four-leaf clover.Like he’d take every fucking one of her problems and carry them just so she could breathe for a second.
It wasn’t subtle.It wasn’t sweet.It was all-in.All want.
I want that.
I want a guy who’ll walk into the shop just to see me.Not because it’s convenient.Not because it fits between his chiropractor appointment and some ego-fluffing conference call.Not like perfect Timmy—as Cleo loves to call him—who left a message on my answering machine earlier, reminding me we’re still on for Friday.
The message was so fucking clinical.Transactional.Like I’m a pit stop on his wellness tour.“Tomorrow I will have sex with my girlfriend.”Woohoo.I guess.
I didn’t even realize he was back in town until that call.No warning.No I-missed-you.Just: “Hey, I’ll see you Friday after the chiropractor.Unless you have any other plans.”
