Prison Cells

Slow, rhythmic strumming of an acoustic guitar caresses your soul until a harmonica tugs, pulling it right out of your body. A female voice begins to sing: "The night is when," she starts. You don't need to hear anymore. But you want to, you have to. Ok, you need to. You NEED to. That moment of sharp contrast when the harmonica trills sends you to shivers, a tingling matched only by the sheer, raw emotion being forced upon you. Alone, alone. All you feel is alone. "This bed is like a prison cell," she hums. How did you know? How could she know? Beautiful, dreadful solitude, bottled up in chord and immortalized in the hinted quiver nestled in her voice. You feel comforted in experiencing the terror of loneliness in such a foreign way: so plainly stated, yet so dressed in disguise. Are the prison cells real? Does she speak of a real cage, or is the final verse true: "my head is like a prison cell," she tells you.

Me too, Taylor.