This book isn’t about Pink Floyd, it’s about me, but John Harris accidentally ghost-wrote my last two years.
Because let’s be real: Dark Side of the Moon wasn’t just a record, it was a group therapy session disguised as vinyl, and I too have been stuck in a concept album I didn’t sign up for. Only mine had less lasers, more crying in hostel bathrooms, and a rotating cast of men who thought “emotional availability” was a food allergy.
Reading about the band splicing madness into music, I kept nodding like: yep, I also tried to turn my nervous breakdown into something people might applaud. Pink Floyd had Abbey Road. I had Zoloft, shrooms in Laos, and an emotional support playlist that could raise the dead. Same vibe.
Harris explains how the album is about time, death, money, madness, and the human condition. Cute. My remix adds ghosting, avoidant boyfriends, oversharing with strangers, and losing half my belongings in Asia. Still charts high on existential Billboard.
So yeah, five stars. Because sometimes survival is the masterpiece. And if Pink Floyd can make their chaos immortal, maybe I can too.