Lyrics, and voices, screamed, crooned and desperate...barely spoken. That one riff, that has been played before, and again and again. Revisited and remade. Reworked, respected and ripped off.
I find beauty in those chills. Solidarity in those gasps for air from the meaningful and the (seemingly) meaningless.
I sing (yelling, somewhat in tune) barely muted into my bathroom mirror. Funny faces that I know Rolling Stone and NME would love....
Finally realizing that, people sing for me.
I am somewhat satisfied.