Years ago, not far way, in 1995,
We’d pretend to kill ourselves, just to stay alive.
I was born, woke in the morning, in 1995.
The world was flat from the back of our cul-de-sac.
Up in arms against eternity, as we collected shame.
Man it feels like yesterday, when we deconstructed most of our names.
We were blown. We blew up fun. Man our minds were lean.
On the footsteps of innocence, man our tears were pretty clean.
Spitting out disclaimers for the pain we might have felt.
You misgauged your worth to me, while I undid my pants belt.
We were horny, our poems corny, in 1996.
We know not of the old plot in our house of sticks.
The year was 97 when were 17.
You could have been Yoko Ono, if I could only sing.
We were bored, but we weren’t boring. It’s just that all our friends were lame.
In a prison as big and clean as ours, it’s hard to find space for all our dirty blame.
We had a big old plate of now. And yesterday was small.
We’d seen our future a million times. And sky was still getting pretty tall.
The sun stopped moving, and I was certain that I knew nothing at all.
But destruction and construction is the beauty of it all.
This sweet, mournful “loose concept” album from folk artist Ian McCuen tracks a journey across the bleak landscape of American life. Bandcamp New & Notable Nov 22, 2022
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