Poor Terry. He's had to carry that awful memory year after year after year. Glass shattered, the pieces scattered, one moment led to tear after tear after tear. But still a part of him will always just be proud of crowded basement shows in their sweaty clothes and their amps up way too loud. And they live on in every song that raw and true, and in the homes they never made it to. And there's a part of them forever in-between, and there's a part of him still buried in Eugene. "Kid Killer," so heavy hitting, but always quitting over and over again. And Adam would always have them play every number over and over my friend. They were such kids back then. He'll never feel young again. And he tries to soldier on but he misses all of them. All of them gone. And though it's strange he misses van rides until dawn, where they would blast Nick Lowe on the stereo and they all would sing along. Some part forever in Eugene. Some part still with them there, still buried in Eugene.