1. |
Haunt
00:56
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All the mistakes you make in later life come back to haunt you. And I will haunt you, like only a best friend could.
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2. |
Ten Eyck Street
03:16
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Sometimes, I contemplate suicide sitting in the grass at Union Square. I try my very best to shake the eyes of little kids that always seem to stare. I swipe my birthday gift Metrocard and try to figure out the last time that I changed my sheets. I get on the train and figure out that I’ll spend the whole day rotting at 5 Ten Eyck Street. All we are is different, is that so hard? I refuse to change, and you refuse to stay the same. I move back and forth, the campus to housing commute, and don’t run into you. You bought me the same book for my birthday two years in a row. We went to see your brother’s band play songs we didn’t know. And I forgot about the sick amount of reasons I should go and just leave you here alone. You said when I get married, I’m gonna dance to that Jenny Lewis song. Man, you know I’d love to be that man, but now I won’t. So for now let’s just get changed and maybe find somewhere to eat and we can take the bus or walk back home to rot inside my room on Ten Eyck Street.
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3. |
Lesson Two
03:41
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You got caught up with those other bands on some stupid east coast label. And you ducked out when I stood outside of your show in San Francisco. And I know that there’s label demands, but if you could make time for your friends… I’ll still hum your songs when I’m with friends or alone, and they’ll just mean a little less. You can spend your time working on those hooks and rhymes, cause after all that’s where the money is. Whatever happened to those Wednesday nights at the Unity Skate Shop? You’d plug your bass in, those notes would carry on for miles. And I know that my songs aren’t strong, but your management team is wrong. But at least we’ve still got that melody in our heads. It goes… And I know you were sold for all you were worth. But return, as you were. Take me home.
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4. |
You Win
03:37
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Each and every person born without a face is who I long to be. Move my sleeping bag across the wooden floor, raise my beaten hands to yours and make my plea. Each and every storm cloud gathered high above the California trees is just another soft reminder that there’s a million things that I won’t ever see. And when I finally leave the desert will they let me clean the sand out of my teeth? And when I finally leave my parents how will I know I have all the things I need? There’s no checklist, no gold star, for me. When will you come claw my insides? All of the apostles talking shit on me from inside my TV. Making fun of how I don’t know who to talk to and how no one wants to put out our CDs. All of my old teachers whispering about how lucky I could be, but when you show your public high school to enough of your ex-girlfriends you retreat. When you finally leave my nightmares how will I know where to find you when I sleep? And when you finally call me out, will I just sit there and pretend that I believe? I don’t know. I guess we’ll see. I get it. I’m nothing. You win.
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The Motorcycle Industry Brooklyn, New York
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