“I hear your voice and it seems as if it was all a dream, I wish it was all a dream.”
Sitting cross-legged, cross-armed, cross-hearted on my bed, listening to this song on repeat and trying to stop it from meaning so much.
It’s been a long weekend, a long 6 months, a long existence. I’ve filled the past few hours with poetry and hardly-known songs in an attempt to feel less exhausted.
“Every time I hear another story
Oh the poor boy lost his head
Everybody feels a little crazy
But we go on living with it”
I am a melancholic, water-colour bullet shell. All my psychedelic shrapnel is lying at my feet – every piece of my cadmium soul has been swallowed and spit out by you. We exploded into a hurricane of colour and tones and this song is currently the only thing to make sense.