Been waiting for days, starved left out in the cold. Your mouth is a weapon, sell all that you have and all that you own. Is it time to get up? Get up! Hang that skin over the throne. Salt on the sea, seeing nothing in season. Your place is at the table. Keep the motor hot. Thirteen are all waiting, the pork chops are fine. Discussion is essential, converting and persuading. Meetings will determine anything that ever had meaning. Hours have been fading, the fateless time is near. All that have been waiting will always be served. The skin is disease. Salt on the sea, seeing nothing is season. The skin is disease. Starved left out in the cold.
The aptly-named Floating in Space write songs as big as the night sky, misty layers of synth dotted with rolling, elegiac piano. Bandcamp New & Notable Oct 17, 2016