Yes, I love youLochlan on speakerphone last evening, warning us it will probably be most of the week until he gets home.
Go outside and listen to the record I sent you, he instructs. He sent me Oceans of Slumber's Winter the other day, which is a masterpiece so underrated it's almost criminal if you're a progressive rock fan or a music fan at all, frankly.
Not now, Bridge. It's dark, John tells me. User override. Lochlan's time difference is excused. It was very very early in the morning for him. It was daylight.
He said he saw the album art online and went down a rabbit hole. I'm kind of stunned by the way we find music sometimes. I can identify with that. The rabbit hole, I mean, though the artwork is neat, too. I already had put that album in my skull from my perch on the wall at the end of the yard, as I do, in the rain. I'm good. I'll do it again today. Just because.
I'm good, I repeat to him but he never believes me. Doesn't believe Ben has retreated, doesn't believe I've resorted to sleeping on Sam's couch, doesn't believe I've even had time to listen to his offering as I've probably been busy lining the boys up and picking them off, one by one with my cold naked charm.