I guess we do it because it’s a sign our heart is beating again. So, I papered over the cracks in that beating ripped muscle, and it’s roaring for a riposte right out of romantic eras I never wanted to return to. We do it because it’s ‘everything we’re told, thought it was’—it does, after all, feel fucking good to have someone hold you. To feel like arms can be anchors from being hurtled through space by life. And so one foot out of the darkness finds us falling in line.

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Breton’s ’15 minutes’ always seemed like a classy way of telling that phenom to fuck off [and the Rone Remix doubly so]. Cynicism here doesn’t feel like cuts, calling back cracks; but rather a bearish beer chat with a friend, wise words met with a headshake and a beastly, booty bob on a dancefloor. Breton want to know: Where was love when the floor fell out? All my friends are in the shadows, and we have a hell of a good time. Why would we need a searchlight of a buzzkill, shining light on all the insidious acts of heart thuggery we commit before hugging it out in the morning?

Love is just a recurrent fame whore seeking its ‘15 minutes’. It’s temporal, and if you didn’t need it wandering through the dark, you definitely don’t need it as a beacon of bigger things to come.

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