This is myself, baby. All of my selves. I own each and every one of them. I know who I'm pretending to be and who I am." The look he gives me is withering. "Do you?

What's that sound I hear? It's just my lifetime It's whistling past my ear

And something tells me if it matters, maybe it shouldn't be easy.

We were both music-obsessed, each in our own way. If we didn't entirely understand the other person's obsession, it didn't matter, because we understood our own.

It takes certain kind of naiveté, or perhaps just stupidity, to know things will end and still hope otherwise.

And our lips. There isn't enough skin, enough spit, enough time, for the lost years that our lips are trying to make up for as they find each other. We kiss. The electric current switches to high. The lights throughout all of Brooklyn must be surging.

Sacrifice, that's what we do for the people we love.