bandcamp
A lot's been changin' lately and I can't tell
If it's me or if it's everybody else
If it's me or if it's everybody else
There will be a voicemail, from a woman who sounds composed, annoyed, but also in good spirits.
"Hello Iri—"
"—don't call him that."
"—Ronin. You don't know me, but I have a message for you from our mutual friend Remi. He's says he's sorry about marshmallows and not getting to show you his vast candle collec—"
At this point, there's nondescript Italian curses in the background, which only causes the woman on the phone to chuckle. "Okay, okay. Remi says he's sorry and he'll explain why he ghosted you, but that the tl;dr is that it wasn't his fault."
Though Remi won't know it, Isla has also followed up this message with a text saying that Remi would probably like to see him, and which hospital he was currently in.
"Why are you the way you are?" Remi asks the blue-eyed blonde at his bedside, who, despite wearing a doctor's coat is not his doctor. "Because you are the way you are." She chimes cheerfully.
record scratch, followed by Remi's voice over as the camera pans to the blonde kissing his forehead. "Now, I bet you're wondering how I wound up here?"
Insert: montage of Remi packing for the trip. He pours over his vast collection of graphic t-shirts, all with puns on them, to select the best of them. To his bag, he also adds candles, massage oil (hand made by Vai), truffles, a backgammon game, and two small stretched-canvases with some oil paints. It's the night before they're meant to leave and Remi finds himself wide awake thanks to the butterflies in his stomach. So, like any sleep-deprived millenial , he hops onto facebook and youtube and does the single worst thing anyone can do to themselves: he reads the comment section about his latest performance.
Words like sell-out, and has-been, and over-produced sham have him breaking out in a cold sweat. His foot taps restlessly as his fingers scroll, and scroll, and scroll. Critics call solo song by Sunset Patrol a desperate publicity stunt. Strip away the electronic beats and clever riffs and what have you got? A show that goes on one-song too long. Remi swallows hard. Why do lead singers always think they can pull this shit? YOU AIN'T NOTHING WITHOUT YOUR BAND, one comment wrote. No one even knows this guy's name, and he thinks he can go solo? lmao, see ya at McDonalds douchebag.
He needed to stop. He needed to sleep.
Glancing over his shoulder at the tin in his bedside, Remi tells himself he'll just do a little. Just enough to quiet the thundering of his heart. His phone rings. It's Vai. She always seems to know when he's on the brink, but there's already a needle in his arm and oblivion bleeding out behind his eyelids.
"Hello Iri—"
"—don't call him that."
"—Ronin. You don't know me, but I have a message for you from our mutual friend Remi. He's says he's sorry about marshmallows and not getting to show you his vast candle collec—"
At this point, there's nondescript Italian curses in the background, which only causes the woman on the phone to chuckle. "Okay, okay. Remi says he's sorry and he'll explain why he ghosted you, but that the tl;dr is that it wasn't his fault."
Though Remi won't know it, Isla has also followed up this message with a text saying that Remi would probably like to see him, and which hospital he was currently in.
"Why are you the way you are?" Remi asks the blue-eyed blonde at his bedside, who, despite wearing a doctor's coat is not his doctor. "Because you are the way you are." She chimes cheerfully.
record scratch, followed by Remi's voice over as the camera pans to the blonde kissing his forehead. "Now, I bet you're wondering how I wound up here?"
Insert: montage of Remi packing for the trip. He pours over his vast collection of graphic t-shirts, all with puns on them, to select the best of them. To his bag, he also adds candles, massage oil (hand made by Vai), truffles, a backgammon game, and two small stretched-canvases with some oil paints. It's the night before they're meant to leave and Remi finds himself wide awake thanks to the butterflies in his stomach. So, like any sleep-deprived millenial , he hops onto facebook and youtube and does the single worst thing anyone can do to themselves: he reads the comment section about his latest performance.
Words like sell-out, and has-been, and over-produced sham have him breaking out in a cold sweat. His foot taps restlessly as his fingers scroll, and scroll, and scroll. Critics call solo song by Sunset Patrol a desperate publicity stunt. Strip away the electronic beats and clever riffs and what have you got? A show that goes on one-song too long. Remi swallows hard. Why do lead singers always think they can pull this shit? YOU AIN'T NOTHING WITHOUT YOUR BAND, one comment wrote. No one even knows this guy's name, and he thinks he can go solo? lmao, see ya at McDonalds douchebag.
He needed to stop. He needed to sleep.
Glancing over his shoulder at the tin in his bedside, Remi tells himself he'll just do a little. Just enough to quiet the thundering of his heart. His phone rings. It's Vai. She always seems to know when he's on the brink, but there's already a needle in his arm and oblivion bleeding out behind his eyelids.
we're only human but w?'ve got hands and hearts and noses
So stop and sm?ll the fuckin' roses
So stop and sm?ll the fuckin' roses
Speaks with a thick Italian accent.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
