Industry | Harmony Holiday

A gunshot then. Stop your bikes and let them wobble in mechanism

Then a gun watchman, hithered on the imaginary end of a macabre

lipping telescope, broke my hero into speeches.

It had to be masculine this many occasions consecutively and also diminutive from a hugeness I could not collect enough pipes and wizards on the
trumpet trigger to build a trumpet or remorse or capitulate or boost my chest into order, for a basicness distortion gives, gives exegesis     Pedals
coiling and scuffing the earth dust trusting lungs to come out in funicular or jigback. If I could just look to the minimalists, suss a sleek black
wrist gathering the handles or clutching stacks of hourglass glasses to his grappling ribs at this one endless shop.    We looted

(The Volta | They Will Sew The Blue Sail | Bio)