(The only way) to hang art in this house is in the places where the previous owners put nails.
Unintentional curators. Co-collaborators (in this old, old house, hey!) in Colchester Town. We've
been here for a while now. Where we know how to build a scene from scratch, even though we
can't build anything else.
I am now the age that you were when you were my age and I still can't do DIY. I don't wanna
conform to your little norms, I just wanna hang a picture frame for beautiful art to add to the
ambience of this room, if I choose.
(The only way) to make cash in this job is to pack up your possessions and live on the road.
Unintentional explorers. I'm not saying touring's boring (but I miss my house, hey!) in Colchester
Town. I ain't been there for a while now. Where I can hide away with those I love and not care
about anything else.
Fake it til you make it or you make a mistake. This stage is your place, you're placing your faith
in muscle memory. Practice makes perfect sense in theory, but theory is lost on me. I give it
everything, but everything gives at times. I base my life on words written in rhyme by creatives
who either grew up into legends or fucking disgraces.
The day-to-day is posting merch, post-gig statuses, post-gig hurt. Chasing engagement and
hunting for lost t-shirts. But I swear that I wouldn't change a thing, apart from maybe the things
that I would change. I wish I didn't care about numbers so much. I wish we had more Spotify
plays.