It’s April, ‘94. It’s been a horrific month for Dave and he couldn’t stick listening to music, thinking about music or anything to do with Nirvana after Kurt’s death. You were his girlfriend and he’d been droning on and on about going to an isolated place where nobody knew him.

After a few days, he came to a conclusion. Fly out to Ireland and go to the Ring of Kerry, mainly because you were from there and would know where to go. But when you were there, Dave was driving around and saw a kid roaming around, his face paled at his shirt. A shirt with Kurt’s face on it. Staring back at him. “… What the fuck…”