Blake Mills


I've got a farsickness
Bringing out the purple in the trees
In what I'd always thought up
As being brown, being brown, being brown

I am still in the cupola
Wondering about your cryptic dream
A single piece of sushi made
From porcelain, from porcelain, from porcelain

Little do I remember
Of what I saw the night we first
Slept inside of warm skin
Remember, remember, remember

I've got a farsickness
For the open edge of anywhere
To vanish up an endless stair
On apple pies, and Julian I don't care

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