I Can't Be Mated to Him
But sitting on this beach, playing music with my mate for the very first time, feels more like magic than bending the very wind to my will.
The waves become our percussion, laying down a steadying beat. Ingrid takes the mid-range, transforming the drinking song once again. What was wistful takes on a mourning sadness, undergirded by an anger I can only hear in her strumming. The singer wants to stop, wants to rest, and they are furious that no one will help them.
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