We're enveloped in the deep timbre of your crooning guitar and scratchy voice, our knees crazy glued together, but I don't have the proper solvent to free us from our childish behaviour. As the feeling starts peeling, I grab my weapon of choice and beat you at your own game, the room reverberating with pure emotion and less-pure tones, dissonant but beautiful nonetheless.

Fast track to the rebellious years in which we rest our heads together and bash our skulls against the dying screen doors in an attempt to regain that little bit of composure that we have left somewhere deep inside. Be distracted, disorientated, and perpetually lost while He says that everything will be alright even though our vision is doubling, our senses are screaming, our logic is shattering, and the only choice we can make from the end of this dark tunnel is to flee. Losing ourselves as the candle smolders out, we finish the job by drowning our sorrows in shots of milk tea and barrels full of discount pastries.