A
september of 1898, i've known a stranger who's visiting the vinyl shop everyday. wearing the same old shirt of his favorite band, The Paradise Bead—which, i found, dull and uninteresting at all. with their arrangements and lyrics all about a lover in Paris from the 1600's, making their listener (with no hatred) as hopeless romantic.
he had always been there, and i've seen him numerous times than i took a sight of the boy i secretly adore in college. i mean, who wouldn't like Riley Williams, right? well, proceeding, every time my wristwatch ticks to four o'clock in the afternoon. i'd see his hickory brown bike being parked at the right side of that certain vinyl shop. when in estimation, he'd spend his time there for an hour or two, and would step right away with another vinyl clasped on his large hands.
he is an angel figure of a gothic boy who would attend countless parties in one night, with chains and dangles on his arms and a loose pants paired with a plain t-shirt he perhaps bought at dollar tree and a denim jacket around 20 dollars from a bargain. he is something exceptional—one who enjoys life whatever breath it would take, heaven sigh, with mint cigarette packs and whiskey on his backpack.
rosy fellows in our countryside often call him as the paradise boy. you might think it is coined towards his favorite band, or shirt. but neither of them rings correct, instead he is known to be the man of youth who brings no good but marijuana and weeds and cavetown smokes. but at all cost, he is someone i ever loved so deeply. someone who would play jazz vinyls and dance with me after the party he has been to, someone who would lift up my chin as delicate as he would touch the lines of my jaw, and i fear this is our parting.
he embody music and rock and thunders within his soul, and if escaping life means being with him—jazz or pop, r&b, indie or rock, hell i wouldn't mind taking every step of it.
—swevenry.
