The man sings like a plague crawling on the ground, its attachments are not the first thing you’ll notice, but when his verses and the tone of his voice slowly takes over the machinery
of your Monday morning misanthropy you’ll begin to wonder how you could ever forget that loving takes more from you than you could ever give, and how you do it anyway. The toxin
now in your lungs, and your body’s immune system is hostage to his rhythms; chasms of his songwriting has metastasised into your liver: I love you’s taste like anxiety induced speechlessness, and bile, and how
many times will you run this over in your mind like a hallucination. His song like a plague, has wiped out this population of sorrows, and what now of you who has only ever claimed
that sadness was your art, your clothes, your home, your sanity.