Professing and expressing and obsessing seems like a trade mocked in 2021. But it’s a commodity I predict we’ll be abusing till the late 2090s. I mean I’ll be repeating obnoxiously and narcissistically: You’re my, my, my, my kind of woman.
Which makes it even more prone in the gamut of bliss and hauntingly beautiful serenity, the vibe she bleeds of course.
It’s like that space song. You have heard it once but no amount of radical alterations of your equalizer lead you to feel what you felt for that first time you added in your playlist. I find it extremely difficult to simultaneously obsess and express. I mean the chords exist in my brain. I feel it on my skin but when she’s around my oh my thy synapses just seem to give up precisely when it’s time to sit down and just obsess. It took a while to set up my smile to smirk. But she did it all perfectly right. Somewhere in those wide eyes in a retro neon-coloured cafe letting her invade the sacred licks seems a bit right. She’s a study for the riffs all right.