It's tough to live with the impermanence of love, or the impermanence of people, really. There aren't all that many reliable bindings that keep it all straight. We fret over its table, over its sink, over its toilet bowl, over its bed until the blood's running hotter than it ever should.
The aching stories that Barnaby writes are tortuous and brutally naked. They give us swells of the dark breezes that slip into us, undetected like mice -- scurrying so gently and silently until they're spotted, in the open and suddenly they're all that we can think about. We know that we're living with them and they are living with us.
The London-based songwriter frames these sweet miseries with the simple and enchanting observation that we can go from believing that we were meant to be with someone forever to knowing so passionately that we couldn't have been more wrong and that we most definitely know we're supposed to be with this other person permanently, with relentless desire and attraction. We follow these thoughts around, like the voyeurs we all are.