It was a cool summer night in California, sitting in your boyfriend’s bed reading one of his many poems he wrote, while he was sitting outside on the porch writing lyrics for his band.

You look over at the date, it was june 8th, 1984. You set down his journal and go outside and sit next to him. “You’re a really good writer you know that?” You say as he immediately lays his head in your lap, his soft curls against your thighs. “You really think so?” he asks as he looks up at you so soft and innocent.