When the contact high from the real-life adventures wear off,
You find in the tiny moments that bomb, your old files rain down from the sky.
And would they fall down, like cymbal crashes, would the alarm bell sound?
Would your eyelashes keep all this in time?
If not, I won't mind...
It can be impractical.
It can be impractical.
So can you tell me why in every version of the events shown here,
There's another season that crawls by like years, from blown speakers clear?
It came out magical.
It came out magical.
Just a contact high, one in every mood I've ever declined to fight,
One in every single exchange you might find.
From blown speakers, time came out magical.
It came out magical, out from blown speakers.
