My hands are sweaty, My heart beats too fast (not fluttering like the wings of a bird but
thumping like stones being thrown into water).
All in Culture
My hands are sweaty, My heart beats too fast (not fluttering like the wings of a bird but
thumping like stones being thrown into water).
The sneeze-like sensation warms up your long-time memory and drowns your consciousness in expired feelings. The voyage of déjà-vu can take you from overwhelming happiness to sinking sadness in a couple of seconds. It acquaints you with your memories afresh, releasing what I am addicted to: nostalgia.
There’s no expiration date on good music, but there is a certain flavor of regret reserved for discovering an awesome band through a midcareer album’s 11th anniversary show. Boris recently played the entirety of Pink at Tavastia, a noisy, smoke-drenched, perfect experience. The band’s particular mix of doom, psychedelic rock, and avant garde noise leaves little space for any sentiment other than pure enjoyment.
The scent of the pages of fifty-year-old booksup in the cold up, Your breaths twirling up,