A Fol Chen song is a kiss from a thunderhead still brewing in the west.
It's lips smashed against the sure promise of a rattling overnight episode.
It's hot breath against dirty glass.
It's what happens when the drink travels steamily down the throat.
It's walking into a warehouse that's going to be the scene of some wonderfully illegal dance party, where the kegs will go dry early in the evening, but no one heads for the door.
It's a liberation from the friendly confines of love and lust.
It's letting lust win more often.