In a dream last night, I stumbled upon a secret Interpol show (I should have known right away that I was dreaming, because Carlos was still on bass). The show was intimate and energetic, even though the songs they played haven’t actually been written/released/made to exist in this place (far as I’m aware, anyway).
The most amusing part, though, was that after the show Paul walked around in baggy clothes and a hoodie, pushing a shopping cart and trying to sell bundles of white sage to people.
“Hey, you want some sage?” he said.
“Oh, uh, no thanks. I grow some at home,” I replied.
“You sure? It’s only a dollar.”
“…Why are you doing this, Mr. Banks?”
He just shrugged, sincerely without an explanation or reason, then smirked and almost knocked me over with his shoulder. I pushed back, laughing as we each tried to interrupt our opponent’s stability until they fell head or ass first onto a concrete floor. It was fun.
Then my alarm woke me up, and I was sad.