[The following conversation takes place in a graveyard at 4:45 PM in New York]
Maura and I, yeah, we liked to do that from time to time. She, uh, she was a real good singer you know? And I tried my best, I swear I did [smirks] and you know, she'd always say I was a good singer and a great guitarist but I really just tried my best, for her. And it was, uh, it was great.
It's not like we needed to busk either, it was just the way we'd spend cold Autumn or Winter days. Standing in the smelly subway station by our apartment. We'd wake up early, get breakfast some where -- usually just bagels or somethin' at the deli downstairs -- eat it quick and take a walk down into the station and travel all over New York playing songs all day.
Yeah, people would drop money into the case but we'd just spend it all that day. No matter how much we made -- we usually made enough for a couple of slices of pizza. But I don't know, I think that's what I'm going to miss the most. Those boring Sundays. Strumming my broken guitar. Listening to her beautiful voice. Doing it alone isn't as fun. I've tried a couple times whenever she was out of town or something.
That's one thing I'll never forget. Our Sundays. And the other thing, well, is when I found her. She, uh, [tears in eyes, slowly streaming down face, jaw clenched] was on the floor. Having a seizure. And, uh, then her nose started to bleed. I felt like I was on a show or something. Like it was fake. Like she was faking. So I started yelling, Maura, Maura, stop playing, I don't want to play anymore. You know, we had this rule if one of us said stop we'd stop. And I kept yelling and screaming and crying and yelling and screaming and crying:
Maura, please, do something. Yell at me. Tell me I shouldn't have come home so late. Tell me you love me. Do something. Do anything.