sitting here sucking dense, morning florida air. the national's high violet resonates through my being as the sun rises over breaking chop. down below, the elderly rise. their leathery limbs are trained to follow. it is a canvas of gilded gold. masking a dark, pewter reality. i am after all, in west palm.
get at this:
Terrible Love
read a review of the national's high violet here:
pitchfork
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