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lyrics

I smell bud in the hallway. I can't be myself when you are away. It's okay, we'll do it your way. If I can sleep here I can sleep anywhere. New york slums have pulled me into the flux. The kids that smoke me up, they're all actors for a buck; they don't give a fuck. And I'm rushing down the staircase to the lobby of the George Washington Hotel. This is my hell, East Third Avenue, what's it to you? I burned those papers you needed. You know better than me. (I wish that I was skinny, then I wouldn't need to be cool and maybe you would need me more than I need you.) I slipped on the black ice. Your black eyes, your sharp teeth. You sank deep. (I wish that I was sickly skinny.) [At this point in the record, the hex requests to rewind the tape back. The tape is rewound but, alas, there is none. Thus, following as such:] You know I can't meet you. You're not real here. I see things no one sees. I pictured draining the blood from your heart. [Logan is allowed into the room and the gates of hell are now finally open.]

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from The Spirit Of The Beehive, released September 21, 2014

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ice age records Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

smoke cops, kill weed

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