Of Montreal. Forecast Facist Future. Zeneszám

:
The language of the frost lobs dead balloons over ruins today
In view of wan wordless crowds that chase waifs to spires with fiery plumes
And incite the firmament?s portrait of ?A Drowning in Styx?
That gives impotents kicks

Boredom murders the heart of our age while sanguinary creeps take the stage
Boredom strangles the life from the printed page

Masking vapor trails from Mercury for a killer on Umbria
Who crippled birch mares now briars replace their old cotton limbs
Who will tell? I mean would it make a difference?
Look metal flower petal tears do not even appear in the Myopic Mirror

The moon was sagging in the sky as I held her face to mine
All our thoughts were coming in so clear beyond the Myopic Mirror
We were darting from the place where we just couldn?t fit
For away from all the violence safely flying in our own orbit

Why do I always have to tell you ?forget about the precient signs!??
Forget about the life we knew
May we never be stripped of anything we love
may we grow so gentle never go mental
may we never go go mental
may we always stay stay gentle

what was my number? 114395? I don?t care!
No no no no no