You were more commited to the smokey shapes that flew from your charred lips than to the entrapment of a gold ring. You decided to go solo because X Factor sucked the souls from your friends, and you don’t know what it did with them. The beach freezes in winter, and you feel like the salt in the ocean; the only one wearily resisting ice and wearing down everybody else, all scattered and angry and aimless. You settle yourself in adolescent waves now but one day you’ll be scooped up and gobbled down by middle-age — and like pop culture, if you’re not lucky, you’ll just be made more ridiculous or irrelevant by time. Everyone wants to be a classic. That’s all anyone really wants.