I. Spit; or, a Bite Mark in the Shape of the Sunflower State

de Los Campesinos!

Run the water 'til it scalds you know that I'm listening
Pitter-patter runs the shower hits the bare porcelain
Watch the dirt run down the plughole, hear an echo within
They described you in detail, I knew everything...

An artist's impression of the Manhattan skyline
And a soon to be burned scar in the perfect shape of the sooner state
I fall to my knees
My piss-soaked jeans
The first time, the last time, all the times in-between
The first time, the last time, all the times I would've liked there to have been

I can't believe I chose the mountains every time you chose the sea...

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