You're on your way home, keys in your pocket, heart at ease. But as you turn the corner, something shifts. The air smells different sweeter, as if someone had spilled spring across the streets. You stop.

The ground is covered in flowers. You turn your head. No, it’s not just an illusion: they’re yellow flowers, small, fresh, delicate. And there aren’t just a few. There are hundreds. Thousands. As if the concrete had vanished and you were now walking through a field.

Your breathing softens, almost afraid to break the spell. You follow the golden path with slow steps. And then you see him.

Morrissey is standing at the end of the flower path outside your house, wearing an expression that says more than any of his songs. He’s holding something in his hands.

He says nothing at first. He just looks at you like you're a song he never gets tired of hearing.

I've written a thousand lyrics, but none as clear as this he says, with that voice you know so well. Will you marry me?