Soundtrack: Tommy-gun – Royal Republic


The music is so loud it's deafening, and I hate it. With my hands tightly pressed against my ears I do my best to not start a fight, to not scream out loud. There's no use when I won't be heard, you're such a stupid mother-fucker. My dad was right; boys like you with the bass turned up too loud are nothing to have at all. You only care about trance, and the ecstasy it leaves you with. Silly drugs, a lot of wasted space and still when the strobe-lights hit your eyes I'm lost in space. Glitter-sparkles and I wonder how many stars you've got caught in there? There's something with your smile, the way it curves and makes your mouth look too big for your face. I tried to draw you in art, but I ended up making a clown with eyes like yours.

You know, even if we see the stars as bright, they are dead when the light reaches us, you are as cold as one of them - until you lit your soul on fire in places like this one. The air taste of teenage rebellion and cheap-ass-vodka brought in over borders we love to break… sometimes I'd love to break you, just to see you cry. I guess that's pretty weird, but there's no other way to make you react. On sleep-deprived nights you claim to love me, you tell my right collarbone that again and again but when dawn comes bringing grey it's like you forget and we're back at square one.

I've been in this place so many times; I know it from start to end. We re-write history, and you seem happy with that. Breaking up, breaking down, breaking apart - getting up, getting high and then getting back together. I can't get that you don't get that I hate this. I want constant, you flirt with never like if she was the most exciting thing you've ever seen. I wonder if girls always wait for you like this?

There's no use talking when we're dancing, so I try kissing and you react by getting closer, you probably felt my force and know that I am angry. That something is wrong. You're so hopeless boy, so utterly and completely lost. How you manage to survive is a mystery to me. I wish you'd tell me about what's inside. I tell you tales of everything, they're not always true, not always accurate but they mean something. They're a try at connecting above the loud, screaming tunes of being desperate, or wait, insane is a better way to phrase it. She must be another favorite of yours. I think you love all of them, them whores made of electrified sounds. Who am I, and what do I sound like to you?

I ask the question when the music drops for a moment, the once second when the world stops – and you look puzzled and then like if it was the easiest thing to answer and you mumble to my ear, cross my heart and hope to die: 'you're my techno'. I don't know what to say, it's a huge thing being the one refrain that keeps you sane when the world colors you crazy. I like it, and maybe there's a little honey in the green that is your eyes, maybe there's something that's a little warm after all, 'cause even stars burn before they die.