This one is true, this one is real

Trust became so much like expectation before it disappeared. Subtle and deranged. Tattered nuances of luck and clues that wish they were you or pucker like a blues in the shopwindow, for sale, for show. Dear Harmony, my father wrote.  Play the notes in your heart until all you hear is in harmony with them. Be yourself, because you can. That's where your name comes from. The mumbled intensity of even the most nimble heart will teach a dead man to breathe again. You always wanted to know what my own father was like. I always did too. Teach that man to breathe again. Seeds are romantic, but the fruit.