When the sun is high
And sweat rolls down your neck
And you bite into a chilled tangerine
And you feel it in your cheeks

And I think of
When you're across a room looking
When you smile
When I feel it in my cheeks

When the storm rolls in
And you find a book
And you sit still
And drown yourself in it

And I think of
When you kiss me half-asleep
When your limbs lie limp on me
When I drown myself in it

Looking at them now
these windows are really ******* tall.
There's a sense of pride
from the anger inside
an exciting culture of fast love and slow money
where ambition consumes you and spits you out like a poisoned danish.

An age-old struggle "so it seems,"
where the ones who make the history books
are killed quietly with the needle of self-loathing
but the media shows us all a huge ****** knife of misunderstanding,
or the shattered glass covered in pieces of Armani suit
under an open pane ten stories above us

where the windows are really ******* tall.