Don't worry about the speakers scratching, it'ss just your favorite part to your favorite song. Just rest your head against me, and shuffle awkwardly side to side as I do. Let it wait until this song and dance is done. He sings of blue skies losing their pigment, and how the fluffy white clowuds aren't so full, or white, anymore. His voice rubs against the speakers and our ears, he sings the same sad song to a sadder chord every afternoon. Every afternoon and evening we dance to it. After a few fingers-crossed moments the lamp flickers to life, because you like saving those dances in near darkness for special occasions. There's a desperation in our dance like every heelstrike is a last chance and if we can't achieve perfection tonight... will we ever? If this isn't a special occasion, what is? Dance with me, dance perfectly, this can last forever.