My texture's a sidewalk and notre-dame's playing

What the actual fuck.

16 months is far too long

to only just realise you hate someone

but it's far too short a time

to realise that they hate you back

you say i dont think enough about my sexual conquests

so why dont you make me spew those bars of soap

and leave me washed out on the floor with our tortoise

my thoughts have never been so unclean before

and you just wont take no for an answer

but who even said i was offering it

ever so apologetic that i cant hear your whiney tones anymore

its being drowned out by the applause

of an era of cataclysmic lovers that are just like me

every morning you wake me up not by kissing me goodbye

but by backing up into the trash cans

and littering your endlessly reliable self help books

into the empty lay by i ended it in the male bathroom

of your favourite squalid chinese buffet

on a sick encrusted toilet seat

i broke your heart into a hundred pieces

and smashed them with the balls of my feet

into the yellowing floor tiles

until they turned an odd shade of grey

your tears staining them back to white

stop wasting them on me i dont mean anything

to anyone and im pleased

the first few days were heaven sent

and i couldnt digest what ive been missing

picking up on the girls that everyone else leaves derelict

they couldnt look anymore flawless to me

they make up for all my dance hall tragedies

and they look even better lying opposite my boney frame

under your favourite well worn bed sheets

wearing nothing but your favourite tshirt

and nibbling away at my modesty

ever so apologetic that i cant hear your whiney tones anymore

its being drowned out by the applause

of an era of cataclysmic lovers that are just like me.

BUT THE NOVELTY WORE OFF

when i realised that my jeans spent more time

on the garish carpet than around my girly hips

and the white noise bursting out of my ears

was actually your voice retorting

all the things i said to fracture you right back at me

its obvious that youre over me and im so beneath you

ever so apologetic that i cant hear your whiney tones anymore

its being drowned out by the applause

of an era of cataclysmic lovers that are just like me

curled up and asleep on your doorstep

feeling quite SHIT FACED(ever so apologetic)

your doorbell ring reverberates in my chest cavity

and my ring finger aches from the force

oh my god why wont you let me in

ive already pissed all over your fresh roses(ever so apologetic)

that i bought for you for 11.50

from the off licence around the corner

but it's the thought that counts

but it's the thought that counts

oh my god why wont you let me in(ever so apologetic)

I FUCKING LOVE YOU so why dont you want me

im ever so apologetic x4

I want day to day life to finish already, I'd much prefer to live night to night; far more exhilarating. Far more aesthetically pleasing. God I hate that phrase, I use it so often it feels like vomit in my mouth (I use that word too often as well, it feels like.. you get the idea), but it works, so I do it. That's how everything happens, it works well for what we're trying to do so we do it.

I guess that would be a good approach to making music; no limitations in terms of style or how cool an instrument is perceived to be, just do it because it fucking sounds good and it makes you feel good when you do it. That being said, I don't want any clashing going on; I might not be writing any music but I'm default diplomat here.

It's all good; something will happen. Sometime soon. We have a kit. We have somewhere to start.