I’ve packed a box of memories, picture post cards, and love letters
sent from wounds I severed long ago. Still, I keep them neatly tucked
below my bed as I dream of past and future events. Anything but
present tense. I’ve made more plans than memories, left a trail of
casualties.
I worry I’ll waste my whole life planning to die. It’s clear that I’ve
wasted this time preoccupied.
Now this box of memories serve as reminders. Remains from my repeated
offenses. Stolen affection from the unsuspecting. I’ve played the
victim and assumed the worst, manipulate and except the undeserved.
I’ve made more plans than memories and left a trail of casualties.
I worry I’ll waste my whole life planning to die. It’s clear that I’ve
wasted this time preoccupied.
There's so much energy throughout Feast of Love. Walls of fuzz, a driving punk rhythm, soft yet impactful vox; their chemistry will rope you in like a high school crush. Only difference is Pity Sex doesn't flake out on you. They're right here h i d d e n l e t t e r s