![]() ![]() (.) "This is private property!" My throat feel coarse from how loudly I'm yelling. I drove seven hours overnight, and I won't leave until you come out here." " Now I'm gonna stand here until you forgive me," he sings loudly, " or at least until you hear me out, la-la, oh-la-la. I open my mouth to say it doesn't matter, but he's already redirecting the song. "I've apologised thirteen times," he yells back, "and so far you haven't called me back." The mesh screen and two floors between us don't seem like enough to protect him from my anger. ![]() It's not anything I recognise, and I strain to make out the lyrics: Stop being ridiculous, stop being ridiculous, Reagan. I pull my window up, and I expect the song from that old movie - the one about a guy with a trench coat and the big radio and his heart on his sleeve.īut it's not that. Matt Finch is standing below my window, guitar strapped across his chest. I glance down from my bedroom window and feel my jaw fall open. “Straining to hear, I can make out something acoustic. I can still give every ounce of fight in me, I got nothing left but what I’ve learned, But I gave you every ounce of fight in me, ![]()
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