Letras
under layers of solid rock, far removed from the shifting tides and having weathered all acts of god are the artifacts of the glory vibe.
the holy unrecognizable lighting up real cigarettes, cursed by ex lives.
drinking only to free themselves from the hands of cruel women in another man's home, from the graves of good friends on the side of the road.
no posture no proof of the one night stand just shadows and stories and the blood on their hands.
the timeworn juvenihlists struck fear until the bones collapsed.
the afterlife is eternal after hours.
we saw the light and we all turned back.
haunted by the teen spirits dragging wallet chains, painting a telephone number on the wall of the cave.
spill your guts to the stranger with the free cocaine.
everybody's petrified so nobody gets to change.
entombed in youth, embalmed with awe.
we all discover the fire.
the prehistoric postmodernists lost art of eye contact.
these skeletons are a fucking riot.
dig them up and bring them back.
we had trained the kind of demons that would rip you apart, we only knew it was love once it broke our hearts. "our best friends float at the bottom of a glass".
don't hold anybody close that would hold you back.
draw breath.
but are you alive?
are you really alive?