“You’re your own Jonathan Ames story,” Stephanie said to me in line for the Prospect Parks bathrooms. This can’t be a compliment.
The moon would fill completely a few hours later, just as Sigur Ros took the stage. People splayed on blankets with rotisserie and Tecate and people they want to kiss.
Icelandic sounds like a tough language. I feel like I hardly know English all the time. But the music syncs with the fireflies buzzing like neon bulbs, spazzing in weird patterns. It’s quiet.
I’m not sure lyrics are always that important anyway.
