A distinctive lusty voice crept up on my underexposed ears, still innocent of such sound. It was one that some would not appreciate with the amount of unbalanced raspiness, heavy on the accent. Others, though, would think of it as a melody; a melody of a past bedtime song, one that you listen to perpetually until the lids of your eyes droop downwards, stepping into the world of the unimaginable, with the curves of your lips crawling upwards, as his does too, whilst singing a ballad.
His hair, stubborn, stand against the science of gravity, a thick black mane thriving towards the grey skies. It counterparts with the highest of notes that has ever escaped the poor sorrows of his larynx*, obviously crying out for help as this man-boy does the impossible of challenging his darker-than-darkness locks at the top of his head. He has yet to win this on going competition.
The ability to act childlike yet levelheaded shines through the cloth on his body and the passion plastered on the side of his skull. The excited grin when walking to a cavity-filled candy store; you wouldn’t expect even a speck of seriousness. This is proved to be false, as the skin between his startling blue-zircon eyes gathers up with anticipation, as his soft soul gets absorbed into a song. His maroon Chuck Taylors would follow suit, tapping away to the beat of the tune.
More could be said about this winsome Homo sapien*, but alas, time has won me over, and a realization has crossed my biology term filled mind:
I now have a flagrant crush on Dan Smith, the rightful owner of the silvery vocals of Bastille.