Six in the morning and Lochlan is very quietly covering Nelly Furtado's Try on his acoustic guitar by the woodstove, feet up, coffee within reach, his light falsetto making short work of the bridge. The lights are all on and the wind is positively howling outside. We're still facing down a week or so of minor snow but any snow is-
Oh, my. He has moved on to Neil Finn's Song of the Lonely Mountain. He's going through what I call my Quiet playlist, learning the songs as they are inoffensive and beautiful and heartbreaking each and I couldn't cull this down if I tried so he's got his work cut out for him for the next fifty years or so.
This is so nice. Ben and Caleb are at their favourite points on the big couch, on their phones. Caleb picking stocks, most likely, and Ben fretting for the state of some of his friends who failed to diversify which works when there is a functioning music industry but not when there isn't and so if I could I would take Caleb's resources and pour them into Ben's friends to keep everyone afloat until this ends.
Lochlan presses skip on the next song. Apparitions. He can sing it but you can watch me dissolve in realtime as I listen. Matthew Good is my spirit animal, my kryptonite and my certain destruction, I make no airs about that.
All your faults in meeeee-
Bridge-
Loch doesn't want a vocal accompaniment, I guess. But now it's in my head. Ha. I can't outrun this. My psyche plucks out my hippocampus and my heart (thrown overhand, no less) in it's arms and comes running after me, flat out.
But for now, I am faster still.