In the suburbs I
I learned to drive
And you told me we'd never survive
Grab your mother's keys we're leavin'
 
You always seemed so sure
That one day we'd be fighting
A suburban war
Your part of town against mine
I saw you standing on the opposite shore
 
But by the time the first bombs fell
We were already bored
We were already, already bored
 
(Och texter som de här får mitt hjärta att värka av nostalgi efter en verklighet som aldrig ens varit min. En sommar i ett land på andra sidan ett stort hav, på andra sidan åren. Varm asfalt, att smita ut genom fönstret ut i nätter fyllda av kvalmig luft över dammiga gräsmattor till bara lår mot kromade motorhuvar, körsbärscola som blir ljummen i burken i svettiga händer, knytnävar i madrassen när lättjan och ungdomen gör så ont att det knappt går att stå ut; hjärtan som värker av tusen grader längtan ut, bort.)

(And In my dreams we're still screamin'
We're still screamin').

 

(The suburbian landscape, the living on the edge of something wilder, greater. The comforting proximity to the monsterous city, which at the same time fuels such heartbreaking longing. As if you are constantly on the edge of something greater. It does seem to inspire great things.)