There's ice on the sink where we bathe—

Please everyone. Sit at your desk and read reviews of indie-pop records. Do not go for drives through midnight suburban neighborhoods with your dearest friends and listen to Huey Lewis so loud you are sure the police will come and put you in handcuffs for that thumping and infectious bass waking all the babies in their cribs. Do not smoke copious amounts of marijuana and collapse in fields and sing shitty Husker Du songs to yourself like they were folk songs meant to be whispered and wavered through. Do not lie in your bed and wear the cliche white earbuds and listen to Inaugural Pop Song for Jane by Sufjan and sob like a little bitch and have the first honest moment with yourself concerning something you did that you truly regret that you can’t talk honestly about because you are legally restrained from doing so. Sit at a desk and read about music. It’s really something that when you get down to it is about numbers and vocabulary.

That being said, how about that new Arcade Fire album?

And you say what about Beach House? Fuck Beach House. It’s all about Crowded House, man. Crowded House forever.