On the day I started listening to The Mountain Goats again old memories of new events came flooding back. My lung clinging to my insides, just as it always had. The other one there, still, as far as I could tell. Cigarette smoke wafting back towards me, olfactory sense, menthol, mental. On the day I started listening back to almost everything that John Darnielle has written I realised I might never make it. And then I thought harder. I’m gonna make it through his catalogue if it kills me. He’s probably thinking – on some level – something similar.