The Twilight Sad tune Reflections on the Television places me in a dingy, dimly lit Glasgow pub-Kind of like the one you remember the Beatles cutting their teeth with before they even broke the UK-compact & old. the song is loud & noisy, not mellow, but exciting & building. the crowd seem to be enjoying themselves timidly-it’s obvious the band has decided to open their set with this entry. The vibe in the pub perfectly matches the vibe experienced at concerts before the audience really gets going-1^st pints aren’t finished yet-bloodstreams are safe, for now.

across the room I notice a leak from the ceiling occasionally tip-taping on the smooth brick surface of the floor. For some reason I can see it from afar, but can’t hear it’s tiny contribution to it’s environment. I often feel the same way- I’m here in the world, relevant & idealistic, but unable to make a splash or unwilling to take risks like the water drop. Always peering & ready for movement, but no action, no jump, no drop. This voice ain't even yours to share, I hum to myself - was that last line trying to tell me something? why am I here to only hold myself back? No one notices me, I assume because I’m dreaming. Either a dream, or I’m under some sort of spell or unknown substance. Young Glaswegians dance & flail around me yet I remain sedated & focused on the music.

A heavy hand takes hold,..It’s late fall, there’s a stench of weed, cheap lager & nighttime that surrounds me. 3 smells I know I’ll never get out of the long sleeve, black sweater I don. “There’s People Downstairs” sings James Graham in his thick Scottish draw. I wonder if he speaks figuratively or literally, will we soon be joined by others, or are we being watched? Why aren’t these people joining the group? My heightened paranoid thoughts solidify my dream state hypothesis. All at once the music stops & I’m fully aware, able to move & interact, but the crowd has stopped cold in their sips of beer, puffs of smoke, & steps of movement-my senses are heightened like that of a vampire & I can now hear the pounding of the water drip-drop leak across the room. I'm more than a fighter, I think to myself. I'm bigger than myself for a moment, & with the now pounding beat of the drip, I realize my size, no longer alone with myself. this dark Scottish night of Fall, the scent, that smell of night, the collective- That's my hope tonight, to be bigger, more powerful, to be with you & I achieve my hope because of this group & with one last drop, the leak dissolves & the crowd all at once becomes one & that evaporation gives me power & a sense of being & purpose & all at once as if I control every voice to every young Glaswegian in that dingy, dimly lit pub I scream out I'm More Than A Fighter, -

& whoa, I feel so liberated & powerful, unstoppable & I leave that pub, now on my own volition, free from the spell of self doubt that so recently bound my feet from the ground-knowing I've changed something & maybe I've passed on a little hope to that dark nighttime crowd, the collective that helped me realize- maybe they've become more powerful in their pursuits-1 less in number, but ultimately stronger. The crowd, now only a figment of a fleeting memory, continue their hedonistic pursuits without me until the early morning Glasgow sun rises & greets with a burst.