I connect my earphones, switch to Spotify and play a Hozier song to set the mood for tonight's work assignment sprint. As I reach the end of the song, rather compassionately, Spotify plays the next song without missing a beat and keeps my tempo moving. It takes me on the journey which started with a single Hozier song, to Lord Huron, Phoebe Bridgers and Bon iver. The songs keep rolling in and suddenly it's bedtime. The bittersweet words and the soulful beats have synchronised my heart beats to its rhythm. Their notes now flow in my blood till I'm eventually in the dusky exuberance of fervour. I'm sipping in the 3am cold air like a warm Italian wine down my throat. My eyes lay half open as they wander through the meadows of melancholic reverie. Flirting with god with half-written poems and completely drenched cigarettes. Idealism sits in its grief as my ears echo of the obsessive. As we danced around the floor, for one night, we stepped and swirled on the broken glass of vanity. And as we curtsy each other at the edge of the earth, I lift the veil of her divinity only to find a verse so broken that even misery leaves it uneaten. It's mine and what's mine is yours, I curse to the god I flew so close to. I look at the bloody mess at my feet, and my ribs popping out, leaking my soul into the aether. Worship is not for the perfectionist, and grief is not for the procrastinator. I let myself bleed into the nothingness that night, until a Coldplay song comes on and finally saves me
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