I am tragically addicted to music. I’m going to end up alone in the middle of a city with a portable record player, some 45s, and a small stack of unopened letters in my suit pocket.
Specifically? The National, Ryan Adams, Damien Rice, Regina Spektor, Tom Waits, Radiohead. These are the repeat offenders.
Secondary offenders? That’s a long list, but here’s the general idea: Billie Holiday, Johnny Cash, New Order, Peter Murphy.
Music is atomic. It hijacks hormone levels; it messes with digestive systems. Lyrics pull our tendons and bones until we’re limp and empty. Ready to be filled. Then we do music’s bidding: ready to love, ready to crawl, ready to scream, ready to fall.
You think you can quit. You can’t. It’s like disengaging life-support. You’ll have to pay off a friend or family member, but they’ll regret it and hate you forever.