hahaha!...

You walk in from your mother's balcony, panda eyes, freezing cold. You bury yourself in my chest to warm, I notice the goosebumps on your arms, millions. And whether it's because of the number of hours spent laid face down on my bed listening to white noise or, well, obviously it's not, I somehow manage to translate them from Braille. And each raise in your skin spoke more to me than the reams and reams of the half finished novels you'd leave lying around all over the place, and every quotation that dribbled from your mouth, like a final, fatal, livejournal entry—I know. I am wrong. I am sorry. 

Los Campesinos!; This Is How You Spell, "Hahaha, We Destroyed The Hopes And Dreams Of A Generation Of Faux-Romantics!" (spoken)