It's a sing-a-long, to some sacred, long-forgotten song. It's a late night discussion over dark beers about all the love that eluded, and all the albums that we wasted.
It's a counter-culture night, playing Dylan's Highway 61 on vinyl amidst ribbons of incense, and blankets our grandmas made for us.
It's blacking out from Zach's concoction of ***, coke, and lime, only to wake to Rachel's black hair and amber eyes.
It's finding joy in philosophical discussions, in coming up with novel terms for being drunk off our *****, in trying to make God make sense, in watching the sunrise at some breakfast diner.
It's holding a newborn nephew, telling your sister you love her.
It's realizing the sweetness of time, reminding yourself to stay alive, sipping on co-bought wine, developing love without clear rhyme.
It's a gift without a why. It's a dream without an alarm clock. It's a kindness to which you must ascribe.