one day you'll be washing yourself with hand soap in a public bathroom,
but you are an artist
and your mind don't work the way you want it to.
so the music's too loud and the screams aren't long enough,
cheap cigarette smoke and glazed-over eyes, i think i threw up my soul
on that orange carpet in your van. there's not enough air to choke on
down here, so i'll take a chipped coffee mug to my lips and stain the rim red,
stale beer in my mouth i spit it out back at you cause i'm in one of those moods
tonight and we're gonna shoot for the stars cause when we're high
the foreign summers of your name on bottoms of postcards don't look so far away.