In my junior year of high school, I drove my parents’ Oldsmobile Omega. Every time it hit a decent bump, the fuse on the radio would blow. So I had a bag full of fuses handy just so I wouldn’t miss songs like “Here’s Where the Story Ends” on WDRE. Ironically, the song kinda marks where The Sundays both began and ended. Now when I hear it, I can still remember all the roads in my old town. I can feel the bumps, and I know when to have the next fuse fired up.

“It's that little souvenir of a terrible year. Which makes my eyes feel sore. Oh I never should have said the books that you read were all I loved you for.”