I don't know anything about Britpop, but Blur when you're high on your math, Oasis when you're picking your food, Sparklehorse when you're copying your holiday homework (okay it's not British), and yelling "Judejudejudejudejudejude..." while listening to someone talking about Hey Jude all make a lot of sense. I smiled wryly in ecstasy and wanted a drug. I found that the Manchester I imagined was like a decadent hometown in the industrial age, with white walls and seagulls, people wrapped in dry and cold woolen blankets in the haze and dust, sitting by the fireplace drinking mulled wine and yearning for winter Istanbul.
Although I haven't been to the UK and haven't mulled red wine.
I'm also a very ordinary person, so far I haven't had the European energy to meet a Serifobo and a lot of franks. I asked about frank's life, listened to the songs frank listened to, tried to read the same book with frank, ate with frank and talked about the future, and was shocked. I found out that frank was hiding his secrets, so I secretly opened frank's diary, and some of the most common pencil marks were shining like a world-shattering talent to me. I put on the frank's headgear, even if it's too uncomfortable, I don't take it off in front of people, how much I want to be a wonderful weirdo, a frank who has the courage to kiss his own thoughts and hand in off-topic compositions to the Chinese teacher, a person who has the ability to caress his own pen tip The frank who paints the afterglow picture, I am surrounded by unique and enviable franks, and I find myself like a perfumer murderer who can't smell himself at all. I hanged myself wearing a hood, and people took off my hood after I died and said, "Oh, that's who."
So I listened to Britpop and left - whoever came up with the word psychedelic, it's just too fitting - to say goodbye to my frank, not caring about what he's been reading lately, where he wants to go, what he wants to do. Before hanging myself, I took off my headgear, and I was going to be an ordinary person squatting in the office. I silently opened and sniffed the sentence in my heart that people said to me, "I don't think you are an ordinary person." Then I folded it up. Stuffed in ears, frankly.
If there is enough cultural precipitation, there will be strange music. I think we drink no less black tea than Kirkland or Honda. But we are not psychedelic. Maybe that's an island trait, maybe to blame the temperate oceanic climate for being too humid.
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