Danish 8-piece band that is so incredibly ambient and beautiful that I cannot get enough.
This song is called Byen Driver (which translates to The City Flows).
I've grown a little less fond of this state since everything fun to do has ended until Regatta.
Case in point, the most exciting part of my day was when Brittany and I were on the never-ending search for water for mom in St. Albans, and we saw a large crowd of kids at the Brick House. So, we decided to drive on through and see if we recognized anyone of consequence. Of course not - everyone there was probably barely sixteen, so we [read: I] decided to have some fun and scream loudly as possible and plow right through a mob of bad dye-jobs, tight pants, and distasteful piercings. It was great fun for about thirty seconds. The terror in their can't-even-buy-cigarettes-but-I-still-smoke eyes. Oh, how I love how relentless the Tank appears to be. (I rest my case.)
Actually, now that I think about it... that was a pretty awesome idea.
Makes me feel old, though.
I've got nothing to worry about, so I worry about nothing. I think I've got fleas, or some tropical disease; my spider sense is tingling.
And now, I am eating cake. This is the good life.
Anything and everything I could ever ask of music.
It was a wonderful time, sad you missed it.
Headlights race towards the corner of the dining room,
Half illuminate a face before they disappear.
You breathe in forty years of failing to describe a feeling;
I breathe out smoke against the window, trace the letters in your name.
Our letters sound the same - full of all our changing that isn't change at all,
All straight lines circle sometime.
You said "Somewhere there's a box full of replacement parts,
To all the tenderness we've broken or let rust away.
Somewhere sympathy is more than just a way of leaving,
Somewhere someone says 'I'm sorry,'
Someone's making plans to stay."
So tell me it's okay. Tell me anything,
Or show me there's a pull, unassailable, that will lead you there,
From the dark, alone, benevolence that you've never known,
Or you knew when you were four and can't remember.
Where a small knife tears out those sloppy seams,
And the silence knows what you silence means,
And your metaphors (as mixed as you can make them) are linked, like days, together.
I still hear trains at night, when the wind is right.
I remember everything, lick and thread this string that will never mend you,
Or tailor more than a memory of a kitchen floor,
Or the fire-door that we kept propping open.
And I love this place; the enormous sky, and the faces, hands that I'm haunted by.
So, why can't I forgive these buildings, these frameworks labeled "Home"?
... I'm addicted to video editing. No lie.
I'm also wearing the cutest panties ever. Again, no lie.