by Niklas Göransson

From desert visions and chemical flames to post-mortem blues, Nuclear Death was never a band so much as a possession. Harmony Drinks of Me brought it to an end – not in ruin, but emancipation.

 

LORI BRAVO: “Harmony Drinks of Me” sounds nothing like “The Planet Cachexial” – it wasn’t meant to. By then, I was in a completely different headspace. A huge shift had happened in my life, and the music reflected that.

NUCLEAR DEATH’s fourth studio album, “The Planet Cachexial”, was self-released by Lori Bravo and Steve Cowan through Cats’ Meow Records in 1996. With few scene contacts left, no promotion, and limited distribution, the record had very little impact. In fact, most old fans didn’t even know it existed until years later.

LORI: After “The Planet Cachexial”, things got rough. I was estranged from my parents, my brother had stopped speaking to me because of his evil wife – I felt lonely as hell. Still technically with Steve, but completely over him. I just didn’t know how to escape the situation.

In the time that followed, Lori drifted further from music. However, one event that struck a particularly deep chord came in April 1998, with the suicide of her childhood lodestar, Wendy O. Williams of THE PLASMATICS.

LORI: I’d also been reading about Diane Arbus – the photographer who slit her wrists in the bathtub. I’d gone deep into that kind of material, thinking maybe it might be the path for me, too. I honestly didn’t think anyone gave a fuck. I felt totally disconnected from everything and everyone that had ever made sense. Pure hell.

Were you seriously contemplating taking your own life?

LORI: Yep, I figured maybe the moment had come. I couldn’t see much left in me worth giving. And if I’ve stopped creating, no longer offering anything of value as an artist, I’d rather not stick around. I really thought, ‘Maybe this is where the story ends?’ I’d already made the best music of my life – why not bow out on that note?

Had you tried writing new music?

LORI: No. I went through a long stretch where I couldn’t even sing at all. Steve shut me down so hard my voice just disappeared – I couldn’t access it. It felt suffocating. And I couldn’t make sense of it. How could this man whom I loved, who’d been my boyfriend for so long, be jealous of me? Just like Phil, when I wanted to practise guitar.

 

NUCLEAR DEATH’s 1996 album “The Planet Cachexial” took shape during a period of social isolation, heavy meth use, and intentional withdrawal from television, radio, and popular music.

Once the album wrapped and their creative high faded along with the meth smoking, Lori and Steve slowly re-emerged – only to realise they’d missed entire cultural shifts, including the grunge explosion and alternative boom of the early to mid-90s.

LORI: We started watching TV again. I can’t even remember the show’s name, but Channel 45 ran music videos from the 90s, and I’d record everything. One day they aired Glastonbury Fest, and this guy came on – Beck. I’d never heard of him. He played songs off “Odelay”, like “New Pollution” and all that.

American songwriter Beck Hansen broke through in the early 1990s with his lo-fi, anti-folk anthem “Loser”. By the time Lori discovered him, Beck had just released the critically acclaimed “Odelay”.

LORI: I remember thinking, ‘Oh my God, he’s incredible!’ Then I started getting the Rolling Stone magazine and discovered Fiona Apple. I said to myself, ‘Damn, this bitch kicks ass.’ Her music made sense to me – I bonded with it. Around that time, I also found out there were more COVEN records.

Lori’s COVEN connection stretched back to the mid-80s, when a friend introduced her to their 1969 debut “Witchcraft Destroys Minds & Reaps Souls”. Marketed with occult imagery– complete with a so-called Black Mass – the album left a lasting impression, not just for its theatrics but for the sheer power of Jinx Dawson’s voice.

LORI: Chris Reifert from AUTOPSY sent me “Blood on the Snow” and the other two – plus a Charles Manson record. And honestly? I really liked that one too. The guy wasn’t stupid, just nuts. But his lyrics were compelling. I started singing along, which is when something shifted.

From singing along to Charles Manson?

LORI: No – Jinx Dawson. I love singing with other people’s voices, especially when they’re great. So, I’d sing with her, walking every night; that’s where my health journey began. Moving around instead of sitting on the couch, stoned, and eating junk. That physical activity helped the weight come off fast.

Once Lori built up some cardio from nightly walks, she moved on to cycling – a form of exercise she still engages in daily.

LORI: Steve didn’t like that at all. I never understood why, but he hated it. It was the weirdest thing. I’d be in the kitchen, doing dishes, stereo on, singing along to “Natural Love” (COVEN) – just feeling good, for once – and he’d come home pissed off, telling me to shut the fuck up.

Not a COVEN fan, I take it?

LORI: It came down more to jealousy. He couldn’t handle that I had the will to get in shape and create again – and do it clean. I’d grown bored of his bullshit, tired of pretending we were in some kind of marriage; the only wedlock I’ve ever honoured is with art. I didn’t want to sit around, watching fucking TV. My only desire was to play.

Did you have any kind of regular income?

LORI: I was still on disability. Steve worked across town at a bike shop, which gave me this priceless window of daytime freedom. I’d grab my Walkman, throw on a mixtape of THE DOORS, and head into the desert, walking through dust and heat – literally surrounded by rattlesnakes and God knows what – singing with Jim Morrison.

 

In the fall of 1998, Lori made several new important discoveries.

LORI: Marilyn Manson’s “Mechanical Animals” had just dropped, and “The Downward Spiral” by NINE INCH NAILS was playing on the radio. I remember hearing those tracks and thinking, ‘What is this now?’ I felt so lucky – I’d returned to the media right as these new sounds emerged, and they ended up shaping everything that followed.

Just as she seriously began entertaining the idea of writing music again – unthinkable only a few months earlier – news reached Lori of her grandfather’s death.

LORI: It really upset me. We weren’t even blood-related – just my grandmother’s husband – and honestly, he was kind of a pervy jerk. But we shared a strange bond. I don’t know; it pissed me off how easily he gave up. I thought, ‘You’re this proud German, decorated war veteran, all about strength… and you folded?’

Fuelled by anger and a fresh surge of artistic energy, Lori poured her emotions into a new track: the clearly COVEN-influenced “Haunted Man-Nimbus”.

LORI: It’s entirely about him. Everything I thought, everything I felt. ‘You told me this, made me believe it – and in the end, you were a weak motherfucker. I won’t go out like you.’ That song lit the fuse. From there, the flow came roaring back. I realised the music was still in me.

Were you tempted to resume the meth habit?

LORI: Not at all. Drugs are great initially, then they start dragging you down. Eventually, you either stop or you don’t; that’s the choice. William S. Burroughs is probably one of the few who kept using and stayed creative his whole life, but I’m not him.

 

By 1999, Lori had begun crafting a new NUCLEAR DEATH album.

LORI: I went back to musicians I’d already studied, digging deeper this time; pushed further. That’s why “Haunted Man-Nimbus” ends with such force – I lifted it straight from David Bowie. I’d been listening to a lot of his early work, training my vocals, getting everything back in shape.

The Bowie influence ran deeper still on the album’s opening track, “Electric Spaceboy”.

LORI: I had my first orgasm listening to “Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars”; that’s what the song’s about. “Eyes Closed” came from a sex fantasy I had about Marilyn Manson. Steve never knew. He had no idea what I was doing – and I’m glad. I needed new blood to feed off. Inspiration hit from every angle.

What’s the meaning behind the title “Harmony Drinks of Me”?

LORI: It came from the safety I felt while sleeping. That’s the idea – harmony drinks me while my eyes are closed. My favourite song title is “Strident”; I loved the word so much I had to look it up, just to know its exact meaning. The music flowed from there.

I’m not even sure how to describe it – but what is that strange, panned, clucking sound in “Strident”?

LORI: Just something on our keyboard; Steve came up with the idea. He still had a bit of juice left, and I knew how to draw it out – at least for the instrumentation. I hadn’t told him yet that I planned to leave. I kept thinking, ‘Okay, I’ll finish the record, get it fully in my hands… then I’m gone.’

 

Musically, “Harmony Drinks of Me” bears no resemblance to NUCLEAR DEATH’s early work – nor any kind of metal. Instead, it veers into psychedelic post-punk, laced with dreamy melancholia.

LORI: Honestly, I don’t get how people say it doesn’t sound like NUCLEAR DEATH. “Harmony…”  is still rooted in me, and the love-hate thing I’ve always had with the sun. I revisit this theme on the new album, where I’m exploring addiction – not loneliness, but craving. A hunger like sunlight.

Was this a deliberate break from the past, or simply a reflection of where you stood musically?

LORI: Always just where I am. Again, I’d argue “Harmony…” sounds exactly like NUCLEAR DEATH. Take “The Baths” – some of the most evil sounds I’ve ever recorded, all of which stems from something personal. As a child, my mom used to bathe me. Kneeling in the tub while she rinsed my hair under the spigot, I’d stare at the drain, terrified.

Terrified of the shower drain?

LORI: Petrified. I was also scared of kites – thought they’d carry me off. Same with the drain: I feared it would pull me under. “The Baths” came straight from that phobia; childhood terror, distilled into sound. Pure, audible evil. But really, after “The Planet Cachexial”, how could anyone not expect us to go in a completely different direction?

Given how pleased you were with “The Planet Cachexial”, was there no urge to develop that style further?

LORI: No. You seem to keep forgetting something: we are NUCLEAR DEATH, a band that’s never made the same album twice. Not even close.

I would argue that the first and second albums have some musical similarities.

LORI: <scoffs> The early stuff was just us figuring shit out. Once I nail something, I lose interest. Time to move on; that’s simply how I work.

 

While early NUCLEAR DEATH revelled in grotesque surrealism and visceral horror, “Harmony Drinks of Me” shifts inward, into psychological terrain. The violence is no longer external – mutilation and decay give way to something internal, abstract. Death still lingers, but is now eroticised, melancholic.

LORI: At the time, I’d been immersed in poetry for about a year. I have hundreds of pages from that period – the songs on “Harmony…” are all there. It’s full of metaphor, most of it aimed at Steve. He’s intuitive, so even if he didn’t catch everything then, I’m sure it hit him later.

Wouldn’t it have been easier to be more direct?

LORI: Back then, I couldn’t be as blunt as I am now. I just wanted to be rid of this useless man. He’d plateaued – slowed down creatively. I wrote everything for “Harmony…” except “Shoot”, which became Steve’s last little move before fading into obscurity.  My mindset was, ‘Let’s finish the album, get the CD in my hands, and then I’m out.’

Were you still living on his parents’ property?

LORI: I wrote “Harmony…” out in the desert, but then his parents sold the place and brought us into the city. They built a little house on the side of their new property, and that’s where we did our final thing together. There was tension too, because Steve’s dad didn’t like that I had Daulton – this kid I knew – coming over.

What was he doing there in the first place?

LORI: He did the digital graphics for “Harmony…”. I’m the one who assembled the bones, the blood, the photography; I handled all of that. But Daulton – computer expert, certified genius, only fifteen years old – brought it together visually. Nothing inappropriate was happening, but Steve’s dad told me, ‘You can’t have people here when you’re home alone.’

But a fifteen-year-old, really?

LORI: I don’t care if you’re an old man, a girl, an animal, or a Martian – just inspire me. Otherwise, I’m sitting there bored out of my mind. Daulton and I clicked; we could talk on the same level, and that’s what matters. He told me, ‘Lori, you can sing. You don’t need Steve. He took your voice, but it’s yours. Take it back.’

 

Did you record a pre-production this time?

LORI: Yes, we demoed everything with our bedroom studio in this desert house, then took it to Chaton Recordings for final production. No drama – we had The Bible. Everything was written out, so nothing dragged on. Didn’t cost much either, because we stayed efficient.

Who played what?

LORI: Whoever wanted to play whatever – fine. I just said, ‘I don’t wanna fucking deal with the bass. Go ahead, you do it. Let me focus on guitar and vocals.’  All I wanted was to play the riffs I’d written, sing the songs, and show people what I could really do.

In the year 2000, “Harmony Drinks of Me” became the third self-released NUCLEAR DEATH album. Visually, it offered a few surprises: the aesthetics feel worlds away from earlier NUCLEAR DEATH iconography.

Now, I have no problem with bands updating their music or image – but changing the logo? Surely, as a lifelong metalhead, Lori must’ve known that’s one of the few sacred lines one does not cross.

LORI: I didn’t change the logo! It just wasn’t used, because it wouldn’t have looked right. “Harmony…” was meant to be like a book of poetry, which is why I dressed Steve in that leather jacket. I told him, ‘Put this on. I’m wearing my witch dress.’

What did you have in mind for the photography?

LORI: I wanted us to look like poets, artists, composers from a faraway era – something elevated. Also, I’d gotten my body back by then, been working out, so I didn’t feel like showing up in some floppy band shirt and denim jeans. I’d done that already.

Did you have better luck distributing this one?

LORI: Nope; we pressed two thousand copies, and I’ve still got some right here. Honestly, I thought “Electric Spaceboy” was going to be a hit; I sent it to every radio station I could think of. Of course, nothing came of it – nothing ever does in my world. I didn’t give up, but I figured, ‘Well, that didn’t land.’ Whatever.

 

With the release of “Harmony Drinks of Me”, NUCLEAR DEATH’s fifth studio album, Lori dissolved the band.

LORI: “Harmony…” made for a perfect swansong. A way to bid goodbye while also saying hello to who I truly am. Because NUCLEAR DEATH is about me. It’s my band. That album shows where I was headed with my solo career. I always show you where I’m going.

Lori has described “Harmony Drinks of Me” as her emancipation from Steve – both creatively and personally. And sure enough, following its release, she ended both the relationship and NUCLEAR DEATH itself on the same day.

LORI: I couldn’t wait any longer. Steve had outstayed his welcome. To quote PINK FLOYD in “Shine on You Crazy Diamond”: ‘Well, you wore out your welcome with random precision.’ By that point, Daulton was in love with me – like, really in love – saying, ‘You’ve gotta move in with me.’ I could’ve gone back to my parents, but he sounded more interesting, and his folks said yes.

They what?

LORI: Yeah, Daulton begged them, ‘Please let Lori move in with me! She’s so cool, I adore her.’ That’s how he entered my world. Daulton was already writing – a really good poet, even at fifteen. An avid reader, deeply into witchcraft. He didn’t even realise he was gay yet, and I think he felt safe coming out to me. We fell in love through the mind.

It’s almost impressive how the relationship absurdities keep reaching new levels – now culminating with a fifteen-year-old gay boyfriend.

LORI: From the outside, it probably looked strange – me in my thirties, hanging out with teenagers. But Daulton’s mom asked no questions. On the contrary, she was happy to have an older, bigger sister figure around for him. It let her go to work, while we could do whatever the fuck we wanted – party, hang out, anything. So why wouldn’t I stay there?

 

It would take another three years before Lori launched her solo career with the experimental rock album “I’d Marry the Devil”. She handled vocals, guitar, and production, with drums performed by Jessie Nelson – a sixteen-year-old prodigy who’d later become a professional jazz drummer.

LORI: That whole period right after dissolving NUCLEAR DEATH was pure chaos – constant stress, trauma, drama, and then more trauma. After “I’d Marry the Devil,” things spiralled further. I found myself in a really volatile situation and got hooked on heroin.

After kicking meth, what made you think trying heroin was a good idea?

LORI: When my dad died, I just wanted the pain to stop. I was curious – like, ‘Why do people love this drug so much? Why is it such a thing?’ It wasn’t about self-loathing. I used for about five years, then finally got sick of feeling tired and unproductive all the time.

How did quitting heroin compare to meth?

LORI: Heroin’s a different beast. The moment you don’t have it, your body turns on you. Then you score and instantly feel better – that part really sucks. But hey, I’m in menopause now: hot flushes non-stop. So, it’s like, whatever. By the time I moved in with my mom, I’d gone back to speeding: a full-blown addict. Took another two years to get clean.

Lori transitioned to crystal meth, which she felt offered renewed energy and helped pull her out of heroin’s depressive lethargy.

In May 2013, she released “When the Sun Dies” under the project name LORI BRAVO RAPED – a deeply personal, blues-inflected EP written during a period of heavy drug use and emotional collapse.

LORI: Making that EP tore me apart. Every song is about loss. My dad had died a few years earlier, and then two of my oldest cats passed. One died right on my pillow – just sighed his last breath in my face. I woke up and he was gone. Three days later, the other one died at my feet. That’s where the first line of the second song came from.

“Leave My Friends Alone” opens with: ‘I’ve got two cats in my freezer, bodies in the ground and family ashes held in boxes.’

LORI: I needed to bury them but didn’t know what to do. In Arizona, the ground is made of caliche – basically hardened clay – and it’s brutal to dig through, even after soaking it. I had to wait until someone strong enough could handle a shovel. Until then, they were in my freezer.

Lori tracked and produced the album herself using GarageBand, with drums by longtime collaborator Jessie Nelson. During the recording of “Everybody’s Gone Away,” she claims to have seen a ghostly vision of her father.

LORI: He appeared while I recorded vocals. I went, ‘Dad? What?’ I thought I was hallucinating from being awake too long. But he looked right at me and said, ‘Lori, I’m so disappointed in you.’ That hit hard. The next day, I quit cold turkey. Buried my meth pipe in the desert: ‘Fuck you, this is stupid. I want to live.’ Never touched it again.

 

In early 2016, American underground label Dark Symphonies re-issued NUCLEAR DEATH’s “Bride of Insect,” “Carrion for Worm,” and “…For Our Dead… / All Creatures Great and Eaten”. Lori’s initial reaction upon receiving the band’s share was stunned disbelief.

LORI: Technically, I guess I approved it. I’m sure he sent proofs or something, and I probably looked at them – but my head was a mess. I might’ve still been using, or maybe just coming off drugs; I honestly don’t remember. When the box showed up, I thought, ‘What the hell am I supposed to do with this? I don’t even want to see it.’

What began as shock – that anyone still cared enough to buy the records – quickly turned into resentment.

LORI: Then I found out how much that shit was selling for and nearly dropped dead. I thought, ‘I should’ve done this myself. Then I’d be making money instead of sitting here broke, begging my mom for grocery money every week.’ I still lived at her place – thank fuck she didn’t charge rent.

Did you eventually straighten things out with Dark Symphonies?

LORI: They weren’t trying to screw me over or anything – I just didn’t get it. I was like, ‘So you can make money off my music, but I can’t?’ Ted Tringo (Dark Symphonies) eventually explained it to me. I hadn’t even set up an online store; I had no idea NUCLEAR DEATH merch meant anything to anyone.

The stack of Dark Symphonies CDs sat untouched in Lori’s closet for nearly three years before she figured out how to turn them into income.

LORI: I took some free online business courses – music and merch stuff. I already knew how to market, but I wanted to sharpen things up, find a way to flip all this into something productive. I ended up making a decent chunk of money and started reinvesting it.

Lori began producing limited-run NUCLEAR DEATH merch – shirts, beanies, and other collectibles.

LORI: I never pressed more than fifty of anything. And whatever I could sign, I signed. I also started selling prints of things I’d made over the years. Having been a visual artist since I was a kid, I’ve got hundreds of pieces – NUCLEAR DEATH-inspired work, unseen material, all kinds of shit.

In 2021, Brian Pattison, guitarist of New York grindcore band ANTHROPIC, stepped in to help with Lori’s e-commerce presence.

LORI: He set up a Big Cartel shop for me and created an official NUCLEAR DEATH Facebook page. But you wanna know when it really started clicking? Bandcamp. I didn’t even fully understand how to use it at first; suddenly, my phone’s going, ‘Ding, ding, ding’, and money’s just rolling in.

 

Released in 2021, “Bare Bones” was written, performed, produced, and mastered entirely in Lori’s home studio. The album functions both as a spiritual continuation of her post–NUCLEAR DEATH evolution and a standalone ‘neo-blues’ record.

LORI: Making “Bare Bones” took eight years. I had to live through hell to reach the level needed for that album. I had no idea it would turn into what it did. The concept was totally different at first, but everything changed after what happened in May 2020 – when I choked, nearly died, and got diagnosed with silent reflux.

The medical crisis followed a performance of “Ave Maria” at a funeral for her cat, Roma. After the ceremony, Lori choked on soy nuts, nearly suffocated, and developed a constant lump sensation in her throat. A trip to the ER and a follow-up with a specialist revealed she had silent reflux – a condition where stomach acid rises into the oesophagus.

LORI: I couldn’t swallow and lost eighty pounds in less than a year. You can go to my YouTube and see it all – I documented the entire recording process in my studio. You’ll literally watch me getting thinner and thinner, right up to the end. The outfits I wore back then? They don’t fit anymore.

 

LORI: The last track, “Diamond Heart,” is a gospel piece I wrote right at the end. It took me eight months just to be able to sing it. I kept holding off, waiting for the right moment. Funny thing is, I didn’t know I’d end up moving to New Orleans, but the song fits perfectly here. The sound, the feel, the soul of the South – it belongs.

In mid-2021, Lori relocated to New Orleans. After visiting her recently divorced brother and spending five days at his place, she felt an immediate connection to the city. The move coincided with the release of “Bare Bones”.

LORI: If you actually read the lyrics – really read them – you’ll understand why I keep saying it’s darker than NUCLEAR DEATH. Those old songs were stories, and stories aren’t evil to me. They’re cool, fun, like a scary movie. But this? “Bare Bones” is a real-life horror story. It’s what I lived through.

Around the same time, long-running US label Moribund Records reached out to license the full NUCLEAR DEATH catalogue.

LORI: I thought, ‘Oh my God, he named his label after our song!’ I’m so glad Odin took charge of the reissues, and I love that he chose to release them in reverse order. I told him, ‘Let’s start with “Bride of Insect”’, but he said, ‘No, we’re doing it the opposite way.’ I thought that was a bold – and smart – move. He probably knows better what sells, anyway.

In October 2021, courtesy of Moribund Records, “Harmony Drinks of Me” finally received a proper release – not just on CD but across digital platforms like iTunes and Spotify.

LORI: It felt like the best birthday gift ever – a new body, being able to swallow again, moving to New Orleans, and finally getting signed by a label that recognised the genius of NUCLEAR DEATH. Eventually, when Odin (Moribund) gets to the final two releases, you’ll probably hear the best version of “Carrion for Worm” yet.

 

Do you have any rarities in your vaults?

LORI: Yeah, I’ve got suitcases and boxes filled with hours of rehearsals, practices – basically everything from NUCLEAR DEATH’s history. Recently, I bought one of those cassette-to-computer converters so I can digitise the tapes, and I plan on putting that stuff out. Slowly.

I imagine you’ve received offers for a NUCLEAR DEATH live reunion – any chance of that happening?

LORI: Unlikely, but not impossible. If so, I’d bring in a totally new line-up – probably younger musicians, people with fresh energy. Turns out I’ve got two Bravo nephews in death metal bands: one’s a drummer, the other a guitarist. Maybe I’d go with them. I could also ask Maddie Kilpatrick from CEMETERY FILTH.

Would you handle bass and vocals again?

LORI: No, I’d play guitar and sing – I never wanted to play bass in the first place. The bassist from ABYSMAL LORD is great; maybe I’d ask him. But honestly, I’m not thinking about any of that right now. I’ve got too much to say as a solo artist. I’m deep into the next two records I want to make, and that’s where my focus is.

I can imagine how frustrating it must be to have your newer work overlooked while everyone fixates on something you did three decades earlier.

LORI: Yeah, I’m sitting here thinking, ‘You wanna talk about NUCLEAR DEATH, but you haven’t even checked out anything I’ve done since?’ It’s right there, easy to find – you can even download it for free. If you’re still not listening, you just don’t give a fuck. As far as you’re concerned, I stopped being a musician after NUCLEAR DEATH, and that’s bullshit.

Do NUCLEAR DEATH fans you meet today typically know what you’ve been up to since the 90s?

LORI: No. People ask, ‘What are you doing now?’ And I go, ‘What do you mean? I’ve made music consistently for twenty-five years since NUCLEAR DEATH.’ Honestly, I don’t get it. I’ve been online forever – easy to find. Everything’s public. If people actually listened to my solo work, they’d realise those are really strong records.

Do you still consider your voice a tool to bring different characters to life?

LORI: No, they’re all me. No masks. Back in NUCLEAR DEATH, I was playing characters. Even “Harmony…” is metaphorical – I wasn’t telling the full truth yet. The moment I wrote my first solo song, the performance side dropped away. Since then, I’ve been completely honest with my audience.

How are you doing health-wise these days?

LORI: Well, as always, I’ve got a lot of demons, all of which are serpents. They live inside me and need feeding. The only way to feed them is to create. Put the pain out there, release it, and move on. I’m not as tortured as I used to be – I’ve just learned how to manage the torment better.

Are you able to manage it sober?

LORI: Yes. I haven’t taken lorazepam – or any kind of tranquilliser – since those first few months of living here. Not once. Navigating my life sober hasn’t been easy. Panic disorder isn’t just anxiety; it’s a whole different beast. But I’ve learned it’s okay. You’ve got to feel the feelings, and trust you’re not gonna die from them.