Scene One.

Sitting in front of a brick wall playing guitar is Jet. Ahead of him lies his guitar case. Only a few coins sit inside. It's been a slow day, as usual. A man is watching as Jet plays the last verse and chorus of Elliott Smith's "Needle In The Hay". Once the song is finished, Jet looks up at his audience hopefully. The man who was watching turns and walks off-stage. Jet's face contorts with offense as he looks out to the audience, then to his guitar case. He repeats this a few times.

JET: Cheapskates.

Jet begins playing "California" by Joni Mitchell. Vine enters from stage-left, carrying his own guitar case. He grins momentarily at the sight of Jet busking before putting on an angry face and approaching forcefully.

VINE: Hey! What the hell are you doing here?

Jet rolls his eyes and continues playing.

VINE: Jet! What are you doing here?

Vine pushes his hand against the neck of the guitar, killing the sound.

JET: Oy! I was in the middle of a fucking song!

VINE: You were in the middle of putting these people to sleep. * gestures toward the audience whilst delivering the line *

JET: Piss off, Vine. They're plenty entertained.

VINE: Oh yeah. I can see by your loot. You've almost got enough here to buy yourself a pick. * Jet goes to respond but is cut off * And anyway, you're playing in my spot.

JET: Shut up, shithead. You can't own a spot.

VINE: The hell I can't. I play here all the time. This is my fucking corner.

JET: You sound like your mum.

VINE: What?

JET: You know. "Fucking corner". Like how hooker's stand on... forget it. It was a prostitution joke.

VINE: You're a prostitution joke.

JET: Hey man, I'm not the one that plays Strokes cover songs all day long.

VINE: At least I play stuff that people know. Better than that John Mitchell crap.

JET: It's Joni Mitchell.

VINE: * impersonating in a high-pitched whiny voice * It's Joni Mitchell. My parents listen to that tragic stuff. People want to hear good music, not some boring old hippy bitch.

JET: Yeah, well, I'm not a radio station.

VINE: Well luckily for these people * gestures toward audience again * I am. "Vine FM - music for the masses, guaranteed to move asses" * dances a little jig with his rectum * So yeah, shove off and give me my spot back.

JET: I'm not going anywhere. This isn't your spot!

Vine shakes his head with mock frustration and offers a look to the audience as he pulls a black marker out from his pocket. He holds it up for a moment before quickly writing "VINE" above Jet's head. Jet tries to prevent it but can't get his hands up from off his guitar quick enough.

VINE: There! Mine!

JET: Fine, whatever. Have fun playing your haircut rock.

Jet puts his guitar in it's case and exits. Vine sets his case down and replies as if he has no idea what the insult means.

VINE: Haircut rock?

Vine shrugs and sets up. Before he starts playing he fixes his hair, making it appear unkempt. As he begins playing, the lights dim. He has been playing for hours and it is now night. He is playing "Last Night" by The Strokes when two cops approach. They watch as he finishes, then talk.

COP1: Not bad, Vine.

VINE: Cheers.

COP1: Not as good as the stuff you used to play.

Vine shrugs. Cop1 looks at Vine's guitar case which has filled sufficiently with cash.

COP1: You've done well today. * picks up a five dollar note and keeps hold of it * You must be doing something right.

VINE: What can I say? People know talent.

COP1: Eh, people know what they know. You just play it. You may as well be a jukebox.

COP2: Yeah, now that Jet guy I've seen playin' around here lately, he's not bad. Plays Bob Dylan. You should give some of that a shot. It ages like wine - only gets better with the years.

Vine eyes Cop2 awkwardly.

VINE: Well, that's your opinion.

Cop2 takes offense and grows a little, stepping menacingly toward Vine.

COP2: Yeah, that is my opinion. You got a problem with it?

VINE: Uh, no. No problem.

COP2: Good. * sees the name "VINE" written on the wall and turns to his partner * Hey, did you say this kid's name was "Vine"?

COP1: Yeah. COP2: Well, what is this?

Cop2 points at the graffiti. The cops look, as does Vine. He becomes visibly nervous.

COP1: Why has your name suddenly appeared on the wall, mate? VINE: Ah... I didn't write it. Must've been... a fan. Yeah, get tons of those. People get obsessed with me and write my name... on walls.

COP1: Oh really?

VINE: ... Yessss.

COP1: Really? * stares a hole into Vine *

VINE: ... No.

Cop1 sighs and Cop2 shakes his head with disappointment.

COP1: Have you got kids, Vine?

VINE: No, sir.

Cop1 smiles at the last word, happy to have gained control of the conversation.

COP1: Well I do. Three of them. All under the age of six.

VINE: Congratulations.

COP2: Hey shut up. Copper's tellin' a story.

A brief silence.

COP1: Anyway, one day my little girl Sally, who's five, comes up to me and says that her brother Jordan has scribbled a naughty word on the wall. So, I get up out of my chair and let her lead me to the hallway, where, all over the walls, the word "DOODLE" is written.

Vine attempts to stifle his own laughter but can't completely. Cop2 prods him and gives a hard stare.

COP2: Ay!

Vine shuts up and behaves himself.

COP1: Now, I storm into Jordan's room violently, as if I'm all liquored up, just to show him that I'm serious - and I ask him "Jordan, did you make this fuckin' mess on my fuckin' wall" and he just starts bawling like a three year old.

VINE: How old is he?

COP1: Two. Right, so I'm furious because this little shit is probably lying to me, and if he's not, then Sally is, so either way I'm being deceived. So, what I do is turn the light off in Jordan's room and lock him in. Then I go to Sally and say "Look, it was very brave of you to come to me and tell me about your brother, but the fact of the matter is that you can't prove shit and since Jordan's denying it, you're also a suspect." So I open the cupboard and tell her to get in and stay there until I've solved the mystery of the "DOODLE" scribbling.

Vine is clearly mortified.

COP1: Now, turns out that it wasn't either of them, but was actually me other kid, Maxie. * laughs as if he's reached the end of a great anecdote *

VINE: Um...

COP1: Now, there's a reason I'm telling you this story and it's not because I need it work shopped. The fact is, those were my kids and they broke the laws of my house. Now, when I'm on duty, these streets are my house, and, as you know, I don't appreciate graffiti all over my fucking walls! Now, you, like Jordan, are denying the charge and I have no way to prove that you're lying, but, what I do have is the knowledge that you don't have a license to be buskin' here.

VINE: Oh nah, I got my license a few weeks ago.

COP1: Regardless, I think I'm entitled to a share of your earnings. * to his partner * What do you reckon?

COP2: I reckon you might be right.

COP1: Yeah. I reckon that too.

The cops kneel and take as much cash as they can carry from Vine's case. He just watches, unable to really do anything. As the cops get up and go to leave, Vine finally musters some courage.

VINE: Come on, guys. * they leave * Curse you, cops!

Scene Two.

The stage is empty for a few seconds. From stage-left comes Vine. He storms furiously over to the door on stage-right and knocks madly on the door. After a short while, Jet answers.

JET: What do you want?

VINE: You chutney ferret! Did you sick the cops on me?

JET: What?

VINE: The bloody cops came 'round to my spot and stole my money!

JET: Wow. Sucks to be you.

VINE: Shut up. I know you're behind this.

JET: Why would I turn the cops onto you?

VINE: Oh, I don't know. Maybe because someone has been raking in dollars like a gardener does leaves, and another someone, who's guitar case is as bare as an a-sexual's crotch, is getting a little jealous.

Pause for confusion.

VINE: The gardener is me. You're the a-sexual. Get it?

JET: Not really. Anyway, as if I'd set the cops loose on you. It goes against every regulation in the busker's code.

Vine waves his arms around grandly.

VINE: Oh yeah. This coming from the spot-stealer! The only code you adhere to is the code for dickheads!

JET: Whatever, man. I didn't get you busted. If you don't believe me, too bad.

Vine glares at Jet.

VINE: Fine. But I'm watching you.

JET: Yeah, well if you want to keep watching me, you'll have to move. I'm going busking.

Vine scoffs.

VINE: Hah! Dressed like that?

Jet scans his apparel.

JET: Yeah, why?

VINE: Pffft. No wonder you don't make any money.

Vine turns and leaves Jet eyeing over himself, puzzled.

Scene Three. Jet is playing the end of "Fake Plastic Trees" by Radiohead and there is not one person watching. He finishes and looks hurt. A few seconds of contemplation is followed by him rearranging his hair into an unkempt fringe look. After doing this he starts playing "Are You Gonna Be My Girl?" by Jet (the band). Once he starts singing the vocals, a guy runs up out-of-control excited. He is jumping and celebrating and loud. GUY: I love this song!

The guy reaches into his pockets and gets much cash and throws it wildly into the case, then skips off. Jet smiles and continues playing for a while until a figure suddenly runs from stage-right and snatches a handful of cash from Jet's case. He then runs away, disappearing stage-left. Jet immediately stops playing and gets up to chase, but by the time he has set his guitar down it is too late and the offender is seemingly too far away for Jet to bother chasing. Infuriated, Jet kicks the air violently.

JET: Gah!

After a few moments, Jet sits back down and starts playing "Get Free" by The Vines. It only serves to further anger him however, so he starts playing some random chords furiously before giving up and packing his guitar away, incensed.

Scene Four.

It is morning and a night's sleep has not calmed Jet down. He enters from stage-right and storms over to the door on stage-left. He knocks on the door but there is no answer. He tries again louder. This time we hear from behind the door someone call "Hang on!" Jet waits impatiently until Vine answers the door, dressed only in a pair of boxer-shorts.

VINE: You? I'm going back to bed.

As Vine turns and goes to retreat back inside, Jet grabs him and pulls him out, leading to a tense confrontation between the two.

JET: Give me my money!

VINE: Get your hands off me.

Vine shoves Jet away.

JET: Give me my money!

VINE: What money?

JET: The money you stole from me yesterday!

VINE: Are you stoned, over-tired or just an idiot?

JET: Don't change the subject!

VINE: What money?

JET: The money that I made playing that stupid fucking recycle-rock.

VINE: What are you talking about?

Jet is about to yell but stops himself, figuring that maybe Vine actually didn't steal the money.

JET: Yesterday, just after we spoke, I made a bunch of cash playing that stupid * singing * "One, two, three, take my hand and come with me" * stops singing * song, and then some bastard came by and took it all.

VINE: Hah! Karma.

JET: How is that karma?

VINE: Because the cops took my money as well.

Jet is bewildered.

JET: Even Alanis Morrisette wouldn’t misconstrue that as karma, and she has the most flawed dictionary in songwriting history.

VINE: All I'm saying is that you got what you deserved. You stole my spot, so I had to write on the wall, so the cops decided to unofficially fine me. It's all a vicious cycle. The richest of tapestries. You had to know the world was going to correct itself at some point.

Jet has no idea how to respond to this. He stares at his enemy, silent.

JET: That's it! I can't handle this anymore. I can't keep playing in the same city with a moronic, derivative, smart-arse culture fart like you!

VINE: Fine then. Go play in another city. You won't be missed around here. You're as unwanted as the corpse of that homeless guy they just leave in the alleyway because it's easier than going to the effort of burying him.

JET: There's no dead homeless guy in an alleyway!

VINE: The dead aren't homeless. They've gone on to a better place. A place where the newspapers are as soft as the guys from Queer Eye and the cardboard boxes are as warm as Grandma's oven-baked apple pies.

JET: What are you on about?

VINE: The dead guy is there, Jet, but he may as well not be. No one notices him. No one cares about him. Just like you and the music you play. Most of the world has moved on. People don't want to hear songs about clouds and peace and tree museums; they want to hear about having fun and rooms on fire and milkshakes! They want video clips with hot chicks acting like sluts and thirty year old men screaming about angst. You're still living in the seventies and it's like a disease, infecting your busking and making your music as aurally attractive as Janis Joplin was physically! I know. I used to play the same shit. I used to listen to it all. Hell, I know how to play every song from Jewel's first album and you know what? People only ever gave me cash when I was playing the singles. So, I figured, why bother with the filler when I can just play the hits? And suddenly, BAM! I'm making fifty bucks a day. People don't want originality, they want familiarity. Smart music makes people feel dumb and original music makes people feel scared. You know why I only play Strokes songs? Because they are the smartest guys in the world. They saw the road being paved by The White Stripes and took everything one step further. They marketed themselves better, they hyped themselves better, they dressed themselves better and now look at them. They're the biggest band in the world.

JET: But their music is shit!

VINE: Their music doesn't matter. There's plenty of good music out there for anyone who wants it, but there's barely any music that makes you cool. The Strokes do that.

JET: So what? You'd rather play "cool" music than commit your heart to anything real?

VINE: Hey man, The Strokes are just as real as Pink Floyd or Dirty Three or anything else you hold in such high regard. In the end, music is about making people feel something, and if music that isn't amazingly original or creative makes people feel, then fine. Who am I to judge what's good and what's bad? Feeling cool by listening to The Strokes is just as legitimate as feeling somber by listening to Leonard Cohen.

JET: What are you saying? That you've experienced the best that music has to offer, yet you still like The Strokes?

VINE: I don't know, but isn't it better putting your energy into liking something instead of hating it?

JET: I can't believe this. You like good music.

VINE: But I'm realistic. I play music for spare cash. I don't have some preconceived notion of credibility or integrity that I have to adhere to. Otherwise, I wouldn't make a cent and the whole thing would be an exercise in futility.

JET: What the fuck is going on? Have you just suddenly grown a brain during this conversation?

VINE: I've always had a brain, but since you've only seen me when I'm busking, you've never noticed.

JET: Whatever. I'm going. Do you have a key to the front door with you?

VINE: No, why?

Jet slams the door shut, leaving Vine outside in only his boxers.

VINE: What was that for?

Jet begins to walk away.

JET: For making fun of Joni Mitchell when you knew how awesome she was.

Scene Five.

Everything is dark. After a few moments of empty silence, a spotlight shines on The Sherlock Homie, who is standing in Vine's spot. He lets rip with a rhyme for the audience.

THE SHERLOCK HOMIE (TSH): Yo muthabitches, ya may not know me
On the streets I'm known as the Sherlock Homie
Private eye, private one-eye, private glimpse at my privates
Is only for the skinny girls, so heifers, start ya diets
My rhymes are wicked like an Al Qaeda plot
And they'll gun you down slowly like a sniper high on pot
Born & raised in the ghetto like Tupac Shakur
So ya'll know what I'm sayin' be true and pure
Like the best MDMA I make ya smile for days
And I can hit ya like Mike Tyson in a million different ways
Always first to the punch and I always spike it
'Til it gets ya drunk - ya may not like it
But that's who I am, that's this * points at self * that's me
I'll bust any muthabitch cuz I'm the Sherlock Homie!

Another spotlight now shines on Jet who is standing stage-left, watching aghast. After a few seconds of silence, he turns to the crowd. The spotlight drops off TSH so that Jet is even more so highlighted. He addresses the audience.

JET: I couldn't believe it. There, in the best spot in the city, Vine's spot, was a fucking rapper. Now let me clarify. If you thought that I hated mainstream rock, you can multiply that hate by a million and apply it to rap. Meaningless lyrics are one thing, but lyrics that are just constant bragging and playing around with the sound of words to make yourself sound talented drive me completely crazy. There was no way I was going to allow this to continue.

Lights come up and Jet storms over to TSH.

JET: Hey, you!

TSH: Yo, homes.

JET: Yo homes yourself, ballface. This isn't your spot.

TSH: Huh?

JET: You see that name * points to the graffiti *, this spot belongs to him and only him - not to some piss-poor hip-hop shit.

TSH: Whoa, bro. Hold up. I don't want any trouble. I just came here to make some easy money.

Jet is infuriated.

JET: Easy money? You think busking is easy? Well... I guess it is if you only rap. That takes no skill. I play music.

TSH: Hey man, rhyming takes skill.

JET: Oh bullshit. You put a monkey in a room with a dictionary and a thesaurus and he could come up with shit better than Tupac and "Biggie" combined. Could probably make it grammatically correct and avoid words like "shizzle" as well.

TSH: Yo dude, you trippin'. You prolly couldn't string a rhyme together half as good as mine.

JET: Then it's decided. A rap battle between the two of us at sundown. That gives you the rest of the day to practise your losing and me the rest of the day to learn all I need to know about rapping from the film "8 Mile".

TSH: Busta, what? You wanta battle me? You can't rattle me. You can't faze me. You crazy. I'll leave you runnin' like a girl gettin' away from the ugly kid in a game of kiss chasy! BOOYAH!

Jet throws his hands to his hair and starts pulling tensely and starts screaming.

JET: Stop talking like that! You're white! And what's this shit about the ghetto you were spewin' about? Look around you. We're in Little Burke Street. It's hardly the projects in New York. What's your fucking problem?

TSH: What's my problem? Boy, I was just flowin' and you came in and started attacking my style and the kind of music I make. You're the one with the problem. And why can't I rap about the ghetto and talk the way I do? It's not like black people own this shit. If the world was like that, then Bob Dylan wouldn't have ever been able to write songs about black people and Elvis Presley wouldn't have been able to steal black music.

JET: Well that's... that's different.

TSH: How?

Jet struggles for an answer.

JET: ... Fucking rappers.

Jet begins to leave.

TSH: So are we battling or what?

JET: Pfft. I wouldn't waste my time with a clown like you. I'm going to get Vine and he'll kick your arse.

Jet leaves angrily as TSH watches him with a "what-the-hell-was-that-about?" stare. Scene Six.

The stage is devoid of human presence again. After a few seconds, Jet, once again, comes storming to Vine's door and knocks. No one answers. He knocks again. Still no answer.

JET: Vine! Vine! Come out, it's important! * still no answer * Dammit!

Jet leaves.

Scene Seven.

Everything is dark again. A spotlight illuminates Vine as he sits in his spot playing guitar. The spotlight grows after a few seconds to reveal TSH standing next to him. TSH launches into a rap over the guitar and both he and Vine seem to be enjoying it. A seconds spotlight appears to stage-left again as Jet enters the scene. A loud, ear-piercing scream is heard as the lights come up (as if seeing what's going on has just driven Jet insane). He storms over to the two men madly, mid-song.

JET: What's going on here?

TSH: And yo, here's Jet, a face you couldn't forget A face that everyday causes his parents regret, BURN!

Jet is taken aback by the inflammatory rhyme. Vine continues to play his tune on guitar.

JET: Hey! Vine, what are you doing? * Vine shrugs as he plays * What's this crazy shit that I see ensuing?

TSH: We're burnin' rhymes like a pyro in a poetry store
Cuz yo' boy Vine ain't a solo artist no more
We've come together like The Beatles and we're rollin' like the Stones
So shut your mouth and turn around and walk yo' ass home, SCORE!

JET: But Vine, when this was mine, you made me go away Now you've seen this rapper and you're gonna let him play? No way, man, this shit doesn't make sense. Come on and say something in your own defense.

TSH: He don't speak, he plays, and I supply the rhymes
And the beer and the bitches and the weed and the lines
But hey, if you want to join, don't leave so quick
You can be the guy in the band that sucks my dick! YEAH!

JET: That's it! I quit! I'm not taking this shit! I've had enough of both of you and I'm sick of it! Tomorrow, at sundown, you guys meet me here, and I'll beat you like a homophobe beats a queer. You play an original, I'll play one of mine and at the end, to see who wins, we'll let the audience decide.

TSH: Honky, you're on, like ya mum's vibrator
But we're in the middle of a song, so fuck off, see ya later.

Jet seethes and eventually leaves.

Scene Eight.

Everything is dark.

ANNOUNCER: Ladies and gentleman, welcome to Little Burke Street for the inaugural BUSK-OFFFFFFFF. On the west-side * spotlight shines on Jet standing with guitar in hand * dressed in whatever he pleases, playing six-string and singing like the wind is JETTTTTT!

JET: I'm'a play like Iron Butterfly and sing like Kurt C.

ANNOUNCER: And on the east-side * spotlight shines on Vine and TSH *dressed the way all the cool kids are, the guitarist and the rap superstar...ist. Vine and The Sherlock Homieeeeeeeee!

TSH: Bust that!

ANNOUNCER: Now for the coin toss. Jet will call.

Vine tosses a coin.

JET: Heads!

The coin lands.

ANNOUNCER: Tails it is. Vine, Sherlock - who will go first?

TSH: Yo, let that punk go first.

VINE: Yeah, let's see what you've got, Jet.

Jet breathes in deeply, sits down and begins playing. As he sings offensive lines, the other two contort their faces in anger and disgust. They look at each other, annoyed.

JET: There was a man named Vine who had many opinions
But he gave them away so that he could make millions
He sold his soul and played shit rock & roll
And now he's playing rap with an idiot
A guy who calls himself The Sherlock Homie
Who is nothing but a fraud, a fake, a phony
A man from whom lies leak whenever he speaks
A man who can politely blow me

Vine, O Vine, where did your honour go?
Did it lose itself hiding in pop-culture's shadow?
Now before you begin, just know that even if you win
Pop-Culture is integrity's recycling bin

Jet finishes the song with a neat guitar outro and then smiles contentedly, finished.

ANNOUNCER: Whoo! Harsh words from Jet, but this isn't over. Right now, with their response is Vine and The Sherlock Homie!

Vine introduces a tune and after four rounds, TSH begins. Whilst their song is played, Jet animatedly seethes, taking offense to almost every line and just generally hating everything he's seeing.

TSH: Yo yo, I'm Sherlock, I don't give a fuck
I got the nod from the devil like a warlock
My rhymes are magical, evangelical, a fuckin' miracle
But poor Jet, he's too cynical
Bites on my rhymes like a fish to bait
Livin' in the Seventies three decades too late
Now Vine here, he gets the idea
He's jumped in this rap vehicle and helped me to steer
Please be clear, that we're a unit now
Like Sonny and Cher, like Mad and Cow,
Like America, we do what we want
And you may try to stop us but you just can't
So sit down, and take notes of what I'm sayin'
Ya gotta ignore the bullshit that Jet is playin'
Ya can't sway him. He's firmly stuck
Like the bankrupt gambler he's out of luck
He thinks he knows what's best for you
What kind of music you should listen to
He's an elitist - plain and simple
He doesn't like pop-culture? Then we'll pop him like a pimple!
And rid ourselves of the cynicism that he preaches
Ignore the negative vibes that the muthabitch teaches
Support the music and enjoy the flow
Because it's him, not us, that's fucking shallow.

ANNOUNCER: Hoooooo! Wowza, damn diddy yam! Well, folks, it's up to you. If you think Jet, the man that, like a Taxiride concert, will never sell out, deserves to win, raise the roof!

--- Audience Response. ---

ANNOUNCER: And if you think Vine & The Sherlock Homie, the men who love music more than Pete Townsend loves research, should be the winners, hollaaaa!

--- Audience Response. ---

ANNOUNCER: Ladies and gentlemen, you're winner is... (whoever got the most cheers)

IF JET WINS...

Lights come up; Jet cheers maniacally and gestures at Vine and TSH.

JET: I knew it! I knew it! (to Vine and TSH) See losers, there's more of us than there are of you and soon enough, you and all your derivative and pointless music will be swallowed by the musical revolution! Yeah! YEAH!

Jet continues to celebrate as Vine comes forward to speak.

VINE: You know, I'm actually not that bummed about losing. You people made your choice and for you, it was the right one. Music isn't about elitism and cynicism. It's about that special feeling you get from that one particular chord change, or drum solo or bass line. It's about the way it moves you and in the end, it's all subjective. If a Strokes song, or an Eminem line makes me feel as good as a Doors tune does for you, then who am I to judge your feelings? Music, as much as it is about community and getting together with other like-minded people at a gig to enjoy the same thing, is even more so about individualism. Because even though you'll all be enjoying the same thing, you'll all be enjoying it for different reasons. Anyway, cheers for listening.

Vine and TSH leave as Jet continue to celebrate, in a musical wonderland of his own. "I'm Sensitive" by Jewel plays as the lights dim for the final time.

IF VINE AND THE SHERLOCK HOMIE WIN...

Jet throws a marvelous tantrum as his opponents congratulate each other and shake hands.

JET: What? You people make me sick! You fucking conformist, Chapel Street, Levis loving, superficial shitheads! Come the musical revolution, you will all be the first against the wall! EVERY SINGLE ONE OF YOU! Go to hell! You can all GO TO HELL!

Jet storms off. TSH and Vine step forward.

TSH: Forget him, bruthas and sistas.

VINE: Yeah, let him wallow in his cynicism for a while. Sooner or later he'll see that it gets you nowhere.

TSH: Yo, and heaps props for cheering us on. You guys are da bomb, yo. DA BOMB! DA DANG-DIGGITY-SHNIGGITY-MIGGITY SHMOO BOMB! Yeah! DAY-AM!

Vine happily pats the excited Sherlock Homie on the back.

VINE: Yeah, thanks. It's great to see that people can still enjoy a song without getting caught up in all the bullshit that you could read into it if you looked too hard. It's heartening to know that people can still take things at face value and have fun, instead of looking for the negative in everything. So, yeah, cheers for listening.

Vine and TSH leave as "I'm Sensitive" by Jewel plays. Light fade.