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I don't know shit about stars and to my knowledge
They are nothing but holes in a big black bubble
So you and i who can't get out
Can at least get some air to breathe
I don't know shit about you and to my knowledge
You are nothing but a hole in my big bubble
So i, myself, who can't get out
Can at least get some air to breathe

I'm gonna tell you that i love you
Sunday morning on a numbers station
In code written all over our faces
In lemon juice on cigarette papers
In carefully arranged flickers in between phosphenes
In murmurations, in coffee stains
We never have enough arms, never have enough time
I got a serious problem with imagination
It's been fucking with my mind
It's been keeping me up at night
Wondering where the tremors went, following the fireflies
On my bicycle around the bend
Into the pit and up again
I want to open you up and crawl into your skin

I am 90% sampling machine and 5% mirrors
And all the remaining parts are mostly xeroxed
You're 80% brass section, 10% tornado
The rest is an array of things i am sort of afraid of
I am running a pseudocide hotline out of my basement
I'm good at explaining what we're good at pretending
You're awfully quiet for someone with such loud eyes
I am asking the cards for advice, i am trying on sadness for size
It's all turmoil and wonder
It's all pseudo silence
It's all turmoil and wonder
It's all pseudo silence

We never have enough arms
We never have enough time
I got a serious problem with imagination
It's been fucking with my mind
It's been keeping me up at night
Wondering where the tremors went, following the fireflies
On my bicycle around the bend
Into the pit and up again
I want to open you up and crawl into your skin

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