Includes unlimited streaming of There's No Radio / In The All-Night Bakery At Dawn
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Just two used match heads, failing a quest to get themselves to bed.
I don’t know how I’m going to get us home.
I don’t know how we’re going to get home.
Come along, Casey. It’s been a long day, but it's never not the first time when you feel this way.
Again so sick with your classic cowering love for a walking statue that always towers above.
So what he's political? All those guys are.
You failed a physical, he's finishing a memoir.
But he strikes from a distance, like he's flattering a costar.
There's no love in the tone of his letter.
It reads like the will of a dying man.
It's best read as the will of a dying man, in love with his own fucking echoes.
Come along, Casey. You've come a long way, but the thing you said’ll happen has to happen today.
But only I know how hard you have fought.
I know I’m not one to talk.
You’re lonely and so your judgment is flawed.
I know I’m not one to talk.
I know I shouldn’t talk.
This here’s an emergency.
It’s not to blame you, but you‘re the heart of the coterie and the beat is getting fainter.
Move back to the share house with the writer and the painter, get warmth from the irons in the fire.
Don’t bend to the will of a dying man.
Beware of the will of a dying man, in love with the sound of his echoes.