Of Radiohead's High and Dry

it has reached an almost grievous nature, that at some point remembrance is a weakness, from its lush air of sweetness and humanity, it has become a curse of some convoluted spell, driving you to trails with marks that do not imitate what is worn, and that you've long repressed, and at the mere rekindling, jolts you unevenly, like thunder of irreconcilable noise, and a  feeling so ferocious, it moves you to thoughts both pleasurable and hurtful. for it is memory wrapped in a box of elegant satin embroidered with every bit of innocence, devoid of doubts or questions of relevance and pride. what of now? consciousness has stained which side will you keep. and the atrocity of generalizing the subjective and reducing its every attempt to conquer against what you sincerely loathe becomes an effort of a great endless sigh, a labyrinth that do not confuse but seduce you to paths all deemed straight, and it leads to an end marred by a pit of longing. what of then?