It just occurred to me that these eight days are going to fly.
And then I'm gonna leave.
Well you'll leave and I'll be stuck here.
In my 9 to 5 job.
While you taste every inch of the world without me.
God.
I don't want that at all.
I want you.
All of you.
And I want to taste every inch of the world with you.

But that's not reality.
September will come and go.
My plane ticket out of here is €700
That's a good few pay cheques.
And what if when I get there,
if I get there.
You don't love me anymore.
You found someone new.
You tasted something better than a pretty Irish girl.

These doubts are killing me.