Hey there, Edward Hopper.

Rogue yellowcard kicks and awry lip slips burst 50's era diner vibes with awkward breezes and nervously jingled keys. Lonely Nighthawk diner dinners eat at family get togethers and make for Elephant trodden living rooms. The Jones's fake smiles and the cul-de-sacs stay empty, but the cookie cutter blinds are wide open. All seeing eyes. Favorites at No.1 create guilty animosity, and copper chords pulled taught under fickle fingers are disenchanting and all wrong. Black hole open eyes know all half truths and lies, but smiling mouths say nothing. and unfit mothers (grandmothers?) are all in my mind? supressed memories? No, but unborn (or undone?) dreams stay buried somewhere. 3 pairs of carbon-copied marshmallow thighs. It All makes sense to me.