Declan had already started playing when Lorelei entered. He had tuned, sighed, then began his favorite sort of set- a set for himself. Thus was different than playing for those crowds, in town squares where their problems and solutions took priority. No, every word and note, every pause and exertion was for Declan. It was sorrowful, sweet, convicting. There was little guitar work, less words. 
 The effect this music had on a the pub was undeniable. It was somber, mournful but alluring. When he sang, it was coffee flavored self-loathing, bitter beer and honey whiskey. Old men spoke softly of young loves, fathers teared up over summers with their now busy children, of regrets they could never take back. 
He only did this every few months, but he did it because he needed to. Years ago he had wondered if it was right to put his audience in such a sad stupor, but he realized again the sadness in their hearts. He picked old, lonely pubs, with downcast doors and no windows. These men were here to remember, to forget, and to feel sorry for themselves and what they had done. It was their happiness, awful as that may be. So, Declan sang. Slow, hard, passionately, gently. He was a sky full of tears and an ocean full of air.