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• Artiste: Anterrabae
• Titre: Mending Tones From Vowels And Frowns
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The crowds are all alone, temperature set in stone, tempers are flailing because they have nobody, yet I don't care. Look alive. A nervous narcotic speaks in fragmented code. The stressed and the torn travel ambiguous roads. Escape! Young one. Tenderness has no place in the past. Let's sew it all up and dress tomorrow in stainless steel. Pressed against the horizon in the wittiest sense, combed over in late fifties fashion. Disasters bring forth the most clever of men with a knack for "Francois" and the skill of disguise. Oh no, oh no, it's just a simple play on words. Scratch that, from here on in, we're on a first name basis. We feel fine, we are quite alright and I could give a fuck if we wake up this time. Amongst the sway of ticking tocks, the only key in a sea of locks. Please! Just let the good times roll. The crowds are all alone, tempers are flailing because they have nobody, yet I don't care.