Listening to British vowels spinning love stories and plucking sad melodies in the tropical city heat.
My preferences are polar opposites of two aesthetics - we have the clean, (literally) chiselled incarnation of every drawn bishounen, young and suggestive, young and naive (and potentially ignorant), a walking wardrobe, with limbs designing movements, body arching out sultry accents, Korean (and some non-) boys.
We also have the rough edges of his unkempt stubble, the sharp bones jutting out from his jaw as he clicks his tongue, the lips chapped by cigarette bums, the voice cracked with age adulteration. Ah, rockstars. So well accessorised. From the rehearsed lines and dolled up grace to the facade of guitar strings and romanticised gauche. Both are deceitful. Both are mirage of desires. Sins.
But even if they appear less appealing as time goes on, what remains is the sounds they left at the doorstep of my stereo.