“This isn’t your music.” “Yes, it is.” “No, it’s not! This is Alex and Oliver Mith’s music!” she stated matter-of-factly. “Smith,” I corrected. Her “Mith” sounded like “myth,” and for some reason that made it seem as if I didn’t truly exist. Funny enough, I felt like that on the daily. “That’s what I said,” she said, agreeing. “And that’s not you.” “I’m pretty sure I know who I am, kid.” “You have no clue who you are,”
