There's sweet tarts on my tape, tootsie rolls in space; I'm a daydreaming narcoleptic. These lollipops are homesick. My cotton candy hair has no breeze of relief. We're all a dying breed. Throw some shit around with me in the biting wind. We've all got so much of it. Hum rhymes while zombies drift underneath shrouds of an ever-growing crescendo of hulking clouds. Clouds take a dip down to mix in with a meringue that stirring itself in a windowless kitchen, right next to an awkwardly placed bathroom, where clarinet players like to practice the trumpet.