“Angelo," I said, "what if you wrote a happy song for Rosaline instead?”

He played a particularly heavy chord. “Why would I sing of happiness when Rosaline isn't here to share it with me?” He gazed at the oval portrait on the piano. “No, my love. I am writing you a beautifully miserable song.”

Angelo lifted his chin as if to look at the Van Gogh masterpiece above the piano, but closed his eyes so he would not see it.

He sang,

Life is a bummer
Life is a drag
A crushed pop can
A crumpled paper bag