From my stone bench throne I survey the sea below and find the morning tide has returned me to a ghost. (we're on my bed and we're laughing, your voice like a windsong, creased eyes when we pause for breath. I look down, I look anywhere but at you, and you look nowhere else but at me, and I'm wondering what you might think-) sails cap the white waves in the beginnings of a new day, where the morning tide has washed the night away. (-if I told you how beautiful you look with flushed cheeks and pulled back hair. When I speak I'm breathless, my hands sweat. I say I want to kiss you, and you say you want to kiss me. but we both know it's not meant to be....)
supported by 17 fans who also own “Where the Wood Grows”
this album is like if vampire weekend and the front bottoms merged and made a band with nate ruess. it's at once fucking beautiful and catchy, and nostalgic and kinda fucky feeling in a really cool way. and the trumpet on James Taylor is goddamn inscrutable whalleyrulz
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