Stream via Bandcamp
Songs for tourists; some from France.
They like the ones with weird instruments.
Songs for people that I used to know;
they send me invites, but I never go.
An ode to heavy eyes, too much space,
Too much time to think about this awful place.
I’ve got nothing to prove,
I aint’ nothing but molecules,
I’m doing nothing but wasting words,
And breaking my own rules.
So I’ve broken a heart or two,
Whose to say mine aint fucked?
Whose to say I mean anything to anyone?
They’re throwing coins in the case,
I’m singing out your name, but saying the truth out loud, it just aint the same.
We’re crossing state lines, robbing rich food banks,
I tried to call you from a payphone last night in some southern state.
An ode to our traveling band whose home is the time it takes, to get from gas stations to the ends of interstates.
I’m living in this sleeping bag,
What city am I in?
I’ve taken advantage, I miss my best friend.
So maybe I’ve taken you for granted,
Maybe it’s the mind frame I’m in,
But none of it means anything if you’re alone in the end.
This song appears on the Courtney’s fourth album No One’s Slate Is Clean