#throam edit

This is the Bismarck cabin scene, from Brendon’s point of view.

Part I:

Let’s start with the apocalypse and take it from there.

That’s a machine for the music industry.

No one has appointed me as the defender of the underdog, the conscience of homophobic musicians.

I start laughing hysterically as I try not to hit his feet with mine, and he tightens his hold of my hand as he laughs with me, glancing over his shoulder with bright eyes wild with misdemeanour.

It’s a room full of petty thieves.

Brendon looks up to the sky and says, “You can never see stars in cities.”

And he begins telling me tales of San Francisco, a potential promised land for guys like him. / I hold it above my head first and then start beating it in front of my chest, smacking it to my open palm so that the microphone will catch the sound.

It’s an absurd notion that I would be, and that he kissed me doesn’t prove anything.

“Unless this is your entertainment value, the attitude, the martyrdom, the disappearing act and then coming back here and bitching about the setlist when you fucking well know we’ve been obsessing over the tracks like we do every night.”

His palms press against my bare chest, and I wonder if he can feel my heart.

Part II:

Him.

The instant buzz is there, in them and not in me.

One ounce of honesty per day.

But if you don’t, the red fades into black, and then turns to grey, and there, at the top of this mountain of ecstasy you had no idea fucking existed, it all turns white: white noise, white electricity, white pleasure.

“Immortality!” he enthuses, his eyes suddenly lightning up.

“It’s bad business, this thing with you two.”

“Don’t…Don’t follow me.”

“I think we should stop,” I say through ragged breathing.

See The Followers, live and in concert! Coming to a venue near you!