there are no labels.

It’s kind of like hearing Zach Condon for the first time. Letting Imogen Heap open your pores. A little bit of Jenny Lewis seeping into your core. It never had to make sense. The ripple of goose bumps on your arms. They don’t teach you how to experience the caress of a guitar. You’re watching Ben Gibbard and Jimmy Tamborello perform live. Don’t put it in plain words it; they will never be sufficient. Sondre Lerche is sitting down at the piano. Can't you hear it? Conor Oberst has infiltrated your mind.