PUSH
He’d been having a rough few weeks. The band he was in weren’t going to make it, it looked like. He’d realised the songs he was writing with his bandmate – the keyboardist – were bad. Terrible, really. Really terrible. If they were narrative, they were forced; if they were abstract, they were pretentious. He’d tried his hand at shifting the rhyme a word earlier (instead of It’s you I miss, You I long to kiss he had I miss you, Long to kiss you). It hadn’t worked or not worked. He had the same words and a headache.
The headache persisted. Morning came and the fogginess hung around. That sunrise, that new day (as referenced in many life-affirming
