Devoted throes of ceremony move in forecourt curves and trays of overpass fast food. And, caught up in amongst us, the service station swears its traipsing halls could lead the footfall anywhere. And it's halfway there. Finally, the chance to find out how long the flashlight batteries last as we fleetly weave between the shaky strokes of snowfield trees... Ducking branches forging paths, putting drawing pins in maps. There were boys you knew at high school who called you late at night to tell you lies but in the kind of voice you liked, so you shouldered the phone and hummed your go-ons just enough like oncoming trucks – just enough oncoming trucks. And hence, if the promise of dense, boreal forest seems far fetched let your window slip an inch, since it insists that this will improve whatever this is we're listening to – this slew of youthful tunes from a nineties I never knew. It seems each sliproad screams like there was something it forgot, 'cause we're not ducking branches, forging paths, putting drawing pins in maps. Devoted throes of ceremony move in forecourt curves and trays of overpass fast food, with all the desperation of soaring autumn spores that caught the dying light, airborne at evenfall.
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