I remember when the days were long And the nights when the living room was on the lawn: Constant quarrelling, the childish fits, And our clothes in a pile on the ottoman; All the slander and doublespeak Were only foolish attempts to show you did not mean Anything but the blatant proof Was your lips touching mine in a photobooth. And as the summer's ending, The cold air will rush your hard heart away You were so condescending: And this is all that's left. Scraping paper to document I've packed a change of clothes and it's time to move on. Cup your mouth to compress the sound, Skinny-dipping with the kids from a nearby town, everything that I said was true As the flashes blinded us in the photobooth. I lost track and then those words were said, You took the wheel and you steered us into my bed. Soon we woke and I walked you home And it was pretty clear that it was hardly love. And as the summers ending The cold air will rush your hard heart away You were so condescending: And this is all that's left Scraping paper to document I've packed a change of clothes and it's time to move on And as the summers ending The cold air will rush your hard heart away You were so condescending: As the alcohol drained the days And as the summers ending, The cold air will rush your hard heart away You were so condescending: And this is all that's left. The empty bottles, spent cigarettes So pack a change of clothes 'cause it's time to move on.

technicolor girls are always on the phone talking about their homes and their conversations continue endlessly. technicolor boys: transistor radios blasting their treble tones and the arguments are disputed after school in the parking lot as the teachers bend the rules. patiently you waited for a courting boy's embrace and then everyone would know, but the letter jacket wasn't yours to own and it proves to be on the temporary loan. and as they all grow older the truth will be understood because we never turn out the way we thought we would.

photographs of the best time you had, windows smuged by the speed, leaving home with our bags from Iron Street as the morning turned into California. And smoke trailed from the butt of my cigarette, our glass house it threw rocks at all those it passed. waking up to the sound of 5 am to take my turn at the wheel, climbed up Shasta: oh how the engine ached as the sun toturned California. And old alleys tugged deep at the heart of me, murals of heroes defacing the blank concrete. vision tunnled: mission street hunger beat - lodged out as the engine wheezd, still moving regardless of stable ground - and this stable ground. photographs of the best time you had, windows smuged by the speed, leaving home with our bags from Iron Street as morning turned into California.