Dear Jane,
Why do they always tell these stories about you? Why is it always procrastination, break-down, and sorrow? Songs of failure titled Jane. Books of self-destruction titled Jane. Well, Jane I want your story told right, so I will tell it myself.
Jane stole for you, for you and your addiction. She wanted nothing more than to make you happy, make you free. Jane pulled all her punches, and she hid the body for you. Jane's real story is that she never would settle for what was offered her. Jane wanted something real, in a world of phoniness, or worse, apathy. She tended a small garden, illegally, behind the big warehouse. She gave the food away, and she lived in a little trailer. She didn't have a car, but when she needed to move, she'd find someone who would do it for a knitted scarf.
Jane's real story is that she mostly just keeps on, and no one even notices much. She doesn't break down over death or losing a man, and she doesn't lose a step when a child is lost, because there is always another child that will need to be looked after, there is always another day, and she is not so selfish as you seem to always write her. And, I'd like to think, that if anyone was listening, you could hear Jane say it.
