High Infidelity.

If it was only a subtle mention that took you back, it would have been fine.
Alright, even.
But it wasn't so.
Like the subtle chill rushing through your bones, and emotions as flustered as the waves ebbing their way through, and as the layers of unasked questions overlap the feeble mind, a mere touch would transport you back in time.
And a mere colour. An expression even. Everything that's present may take you back to past.
And almost each and every peculiar expression, emotion, possession is a reminder of one's moments, those buried underneath everyday shallowness.
'cause all the good in the world is never enough to eliminate the pain, that one always keeps rooted in those places visited in solitude.
Or maybe, I'm too naive to realise that someday niceties shall be magnified enough to shroud all the doubts of faith and honesty. And for now, as pain chooses to remain obstinate and the erstwhile would choose to indulge in vanities and mild obscenities as was demanded of him.
'Cause one can go on and on as to how faith is never to be lost.
As we lose ourselves in the currents of beguiling words and deceptive intentions.
And then questions are asked as to why I love The Shins the much I do. It's because they stir those very asleep thoughts, all at once, forcing the bluff to open itself and revel in its nudity.
And then again, some might ask why I love Fleetwood Mac the much I do, 'cause they serve an alternately important purpose, they are mine and mine alone, and they do not stir up a past.
Thank you for understanding, Nick Hornby, you beautiful thing.