Every time I listen to this disc, I feel like I\'m listening to a movie. The music is sweeping and atmospheric, shifting from mood to mood. Then the beats enter these atmospheres, marrying into them like co-dependent fiancées. Now your head’s bobbing to a swirling, sonic, cinematic landscape. And you’re confused: this could be on the radio, couldn\'t it? Or is it too underground? You can’t figure it out.

My phone is turned off tonight
My headphones are singing to me
Like you once did
The neighbors are a lost memory
The traffic outside is a dream
But I think I am still awake
Living in a sleep-like trance
Life seems good
No poking or prodding to get ahead or stay afloat
Sooner or later I will wake up
And notice
The eviction letter
On the table
Again

Nighttime’s a real bitch on Adams501, a giant hothouse three times the size of Earth. The nights are so damn long you stand watch at least once, if not twice each phase. When you aren’t trying to stab giant flying insects out of the air with your knife, you spend hours cleaning the moisture out of your gear, squatting in the dirt near your \'pod, and trying to pick out which star in the sky is home.

The day former President Richard Milhous Nixon died, I was lying on a shelf of black volcanic rock three feet above sea level in Taormina, Sicily, and 15 feet away from the most incredible girl I had ever seen.

If it weren\'t for the song \"When We Fall\", I would have passed Phosphorescent\'s six-song EP, The Weight Of Flight, to someone else. But, goddamnit... that song is so catchy.
\"When We Fall\" is a fun sing-along, peppered with horns and handclaps (which I\'m a sucker for), and features a room full of singers. At its core, its a fun musical experience. But after a few listens, it becomes more apparent what this song truly is: a bunch of friends sitting around, having a good time, and making music while they do it.

It\'s too easy to look back and point your finger. I could do that any time of any day and I could make it sound very slick and pretty. But lately, I\'m finding cynicism a little too easy to master. It gets boring. Doesn\'t take much to get out the stainless steel machete and cut something apart.

Breathing again
With regular employment
The first anything we mutter
Is a complaint,
But again I hear nothing,
Only thirsty eyes
Losing themselves in layers
Of barroom funhouse coffee shop
Distractions, wielding thoughts
Like heavy weaponry
In their gunboat chairs
Thinking thinking thinking
That anyone who smiles
Fucking dies.

I’m leaning against the trunk of a cherry tree in the warm noonday sun, watching fattened blossoms parachute patiently like plump, pink paratroopers, plummeting to the battlefield of emerald green grass at my feet as I wait for Mae, my lunch date, to arrive.
I’d been working up the nerve to ask her for a kiss since sharing the whispered hiss of a nitrous tank with her during an anonymous backyard bash last week: the moon was full that night, and I saw myself drowning, reflected in the sparkling highlights of her eyes. At that moment, I would have done anything to own her love.

And then there\'s the liquor
Stares of anger
Looking much like an undead
Haze and doubling
Into gods as the machinery
Works with less ticking
Than grinding
Though the screaming
Is silent misplaced
And out of sight
Save his eyes.