The first time I realised that I properly loved someone I was sat at the back of a Flaming Lips gig in Brighton. It was a beautiful flurry of colour; a vibrant mist of chaos.
Afterwards we walked along the beach, letting our feet sink inbetween the pebbles. And I couldn’t say it. The moon was full and big and bright. It was perfect. But I didn’t say it.
I ended up saying it whilst standing on a flashing dancefloor in the middle of Flares holding plastic pint glass full of £4 a bottle wine.
When I think about love my head fills with music.
