1. |
DISTRUST
01:21
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like an anxiety attack the cold front approaches
shocked by the chorus over and over and over and over
like an anxiety attack the cold front approaches
we're sick to our stomachs, no words no pictures can hold this
like an anxiety attack
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2. |
CHOOSE DEFEAT
04:58
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I cannot believe that I still have to say that
I find nothing real for every time I feel it
Sticking into words and piercing into chords when
I am prying into the space in between
Every single chord and each and every string but
Still nothing moves me
I just want to smell the golden cymbal crash and
I just want to taste the bass push through my chest
I’ll strip off these clothes
Me quitaré la piel
Hasta que ya no haya nada
But the emotions hanging there
Hold myself up
I’m fooling myself
I can feel a thousand seeds
Plant my bones into the soil
Then I’ll be sure to never grow
I’ll never leave, I’ll never go
I can feel a thousand volts
Rip me out, dry and lost
I’ll never find another home
Mejor me voy, mejor me voy
Don’t you dare fucking tell me
That I am still here
As I sit alone in my bed
I’m nothing but
The definition of sick
I can breathe but I may as well be dead
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3. |
SPOKEN LANGUAGE
04:25
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I found my resemblance
In the glass of your hardened stare
And my assumptions were sewn upon me
Dry heaving conceit and pulling out hair
Heeding the ink that’s inside of our heads,
been tattooed into our brain tissue
Screaming, unthinking to please the dead,
nostalgia I think is our main issue
Textural glass imposes the harshest reflection
Botellas de Ciel, León, Coca y ansiedad
Una ola de euforia en la forma de una gente
Una unión más grande que un pinche dios, de verdad
This city has me wrapped
in its fingers of smog
Choke me into submission,
I’ve found and I’m lost
My privilege hung over me like a sickness
Attempt at empathy only to flail
Completely neglect a pricey education
Our good intentions completely derailed
We study our hatred, determine our worth
Bloated, unconscious, we fall to the earth
Still looking through tunnels we react with fists
And fight over a truth that does not exist
Poco a poco, día a día
Mi humor y mi confianza giran y giran
No puedo leer, no puedo leer
Las palabras, los libros, las emociones de
Cada cerebro, cada trozo de carne
Que ya he comido sin saber, sin saber
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4. |
FINALIZER
04:54
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Shortsighted in development,
Regressive in their policies,
Circular in direction,
Percussive in their march.
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Pathos Mathos San Jose, California
Sorcha and Sam making music to make hugs to.
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