An okay voice and personal rap and soap storyline, backwards cap and a simmering shout, a pattering scream from every audience woman almost of age, and we all wish we were her, the girl you do this for, who we assume is hopeless, fucking your best friend by now since you moved. She’s got every kind of need you never knew she had; you had only kissed her.

I was only ever serenaded with god songs and those songs weren’t about me and I’d will, “write something, write something else,” but Jack was a trickless pony, a clean-split egg, half-content not to contain anything, not a miniature toy or sweet or a yolk.