This night is iced over, but you wouldn't know it from the sultry temperatures that are spreading through like a disease. It's not at all clear what's worse -- the chilliness outside trying to barge its way in through any crack it can find or the emotions that are rising within the heated room, where there happens to be a piano up against the wall in the corner.
London's Laurel provides a backdrop to all of this present drama that's all aftermath, giving sweet sadness to it. She lovingly details her misfortunes in a way that makes them sound unbearable, but so intriguingly unbearable that they also sound enviable -- like you wouldn't mind a little taste or a sip of just what that feels like. She brings them as someone would a bottle of wine, to a dinner party -- held by the neck, as if it were an emotionless catch. They're handed over and then poured into glasses and the bottle lasts through the entire night, being swigged from here and there, face-to-face with someone who just might understand what all of this means.