There are so few things I love to do more than coughing up money for a cheap hotel, sleeping there alone, and waking up in the morning with a sight to see: a boy in pearls and high-waisted pants, for example, plus fifteen thousand people who have grounded themselves the same way I have, using someone else’s gestures and vocal tics to mark time, to help them remember, and to return them over and over to the question of who they are.
Would do anything for another Harry Styled concert tbh
