Sound Of My

I’d like to say my voice could guide out of all situations, like Blair Witch, or house haunt, or Julia Roberts teaching you what decorum is. That training, which was yearly, CV-missed grades in speaking, like there’s one correct way of doing things, is enough to diffuse, undo or do-up, depending on needs. That being dulcet could talk into Pattinson’s elastane, or unravel the cotton fixing Ethan Hawke’s shirt buttons to his shirts.

But being effectively accent-less, undefined by a family place setting or a county isn’t actually worth anything, particularly. It’s a universality American films seek the undoing of, and I unsuccessfully merge with lilt and patters, perks and spits. I’ll never sound like somebody else. I was taught generically, to sound like everybody English. And I wait to meet somebody else who was.

The Person Falling Here Is Me

This song weaves between films, tv shows and films until, ingrained, it plays Ben’s bed or Jim’s shirt and Mike’s hand and it fills every meal plate up and makes conversation whir, and stirs every almost whim, and could make anybody come, stay, would sieve any leavers out so that seriousness lingers. Linger. Which is another The Cranberries song. Six degrees and separation of.