Long nights are best spent alone, coated in twinkle lights and warm socks. The world is locked out and your brain is quiet, so quiet that you can hear the music of your own laughter when you laugh at your own joke, clever and private. You stop laughing; the world is so silent that your ears ring, and you're sure that, even though it's past three, you'll never sleep, because this moment is already a dream.
On heartbreak:
Heartbreak is not the pain of the death of romance; it is the bitter sting of the death of trust. It doesn't matter how I loved you, just that I did—I loved you, and you looked me in the eyes and called me a liar and tore into my heart so suddenly that I couldn't breathe, and then you left. You let me fall into a fitful sleep without another word, and when I woke up, I was sure I hated you. What is sudden, lung-crushing hate if not heartbreak?
On general admission concerts:
It is a kind of religion, the long lines in the biting cold and the wild outfits and the strategizing as they wait. (Who's doing coat check? Who's buying merch? I'll get our spot.) Once inside, they continue to wait and wait and wait—but then they scream the words to hours of music in unison like they will die if they don't, and the press of bodies is a comfort. There is nothing but swinging hips and stomping feet and craning necks to see the great stage above; there is nothing but freedom, nothing but energy.