Here’s the thing. We really love each other. So last night we were playing the “Our Song” game, which most people can play with top points. Wind Beneath My Wings ring a bell?

Of course we turned it into a competition. Several hours worth. Phil Collins, Foreigner, Cyndi Lauper, Warren Zevon, Edith Piaf, Puccini, Neil Diamond, Sinatra, Nat King Cole, Van Morrison, Tom Waits, Rossini, Jeff Buckley, Heart, and not Pat Benetar or the Stones, although I was tempted by “She Was Hot.” Truth is, we have an endless number of songs that are “ours.” We could dance to them in public and without caring what anyone thinks. Because we are always us, and we make everybody else so pissed at us we have to hang together. And we like it, like it, yes, we do.

The last dance WILL be ours.

And thought is our rhythm.