I’m sitting in my bedroom and I can hear muffled music from somewhere outside, and just this bass throb and something else low mixed in, with a little sparkle to it, and I think, “That’s Stevie Nicks. That’s the Dance album.” So I open the window, and yeah, it’s “Dreams.” So now I’m sitting here with the window open, because it’s kind of nicer than just pulling out the CD and listening to it myself.
Some girl started following me on here, so I went to her page, and she has a post where she’s all “Gross. Fleetwood Mac.”
Honey, I am not someone you’d be interested in.
My feelings about politics and literature and mathematics and the rest of life’s minutiae can only be described through a labyrinthine of six-sided questions, but everything that actually matters can be explained by Lindsey fucking Buckingham and Stevie fucking Nicks in four fucking minutes.
Chuck Klosterman (via straypaper) (via fuckyeahstevienicks)
I mean, yes, but also: Chuck Klosterman managed to get six books published without knowing that “labyrinthine” is not a noun?
I had a dream last night where Stevie Nicks was singing a slightly slowed-down version of “Dreams” live, backed by like, all the chicks from Lilith Fair and a gospel choir.
If my brain were made of Venn diagrams, the place where Fleetwood Mac’s Tango in the Night, Stevie Nicks’ The Wild Heart, and that whole genre of fantasy/spooky children’s films from the ’80s that encompasses everything from The Neverending Story to Little Monsters to The Secret of NIMH and always seemed to be playing on some cable channel on rainy Sunday afternoons overlap would be Florence + the Machine’s Lungs.