Youth, our regret. Idle times never left. We're counting days we never kept. We haven't quite reached the end, we've merely just come so fucking close. Fading dreams, a moments lapse, I can't keep stride with all that's passed.
Empty words falling flat from sources unsound. It's not what happens, it's just what is told. We've fallen all too far to regain composure. Take me out.
supported by 7 fans who also own “Living Out A Dying Cell”
What might a band like Indian Summer or Native Nod sound like if they were thrashing around a 21st century basement? It could be something like this. Luke