A whisper one can only hear when the lights are out. But maybe there are voices really talking to you in the white noise of night. How else would you release these demons? Run the perimeter of Flushing. Forcing yourself to leave. Never really crossing that fine line of “missing person” and “Nobody will ever remember me.” Being told not to itch a scratch. Some mixtape never heard by nobody. Exactly a Universal Psycho-Magnetic Force. That mouth on your mouth, though. Dancing that feels as good as sex. An accent you cannot place. Mother on the prowl. Out now on Braindead Records:
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