A Perfect Climate

by Big Black Cloud

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Spike Miller - guitars
Joshua Costa - guitars, vocals
Andrew Davis - percussion, synthesizer
Luke Schram - bass, trombone


released January 12, 2008

Recorded/Mixed by Andrew Davis at The Whiteroom Studio Detroit.



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God Sags His Pants Records Seattle, Washington

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Track Name: Prairie & Pasture
The steps to the trees, my head and the heat, things I scream that I need. I just seethe through my teeth at you on the rope. It's true and a laughable joke, how fast fell our hope.
And it came to our heads, belief.
And it burned until my hands' release.
Track Name: Firehouse
It was so hot when I woke up, but everything has a purpose, so I don't feel dumb sleeping through the fire.
It was so hot when I slept, the rise to the surface makes my arms go numb. Drifting at my sides.
Your eyes will follow lines until you die. Smoke will blacken sky making rivers of your eyes, take away your sight, erasing pages of you mind. Putting pressure on the spine.
Sear sear sear!
Don't forget to come in here. It's true how people wait for years for something better.
We don't make the beds in the furniture store. When don't blame anyone anymore. It's how we breathe free in the smokey air. It's how we believe we're not really there.
We need to believe.
Track Name: Maryland
And so we writhe in our beds, clenching teeth in our heads we are slowly suspending belief, there's a glowing that creeps and we know what it's doing. It's filling the room in. We absorb heat, try moving feet, but we know it's hard to leave while my hand in my sleeve breaks windows.
Stuck in between something real and a dream and I know it's splitting the seams of my ship in the stream of your throat.
Uncold and unclean, I swim through the stream of your throat.

And I'll hate the days that I stay awake. I'll forget the lines of your face, the things that they say. I'll forget that you are in your grave. Do you feel out of place?
Now that you're a pattern, a cigarette burn?

And what do you do when the physical, touchable world you offer as proof of invisible, trustable truth is only a fraction of truth?
Escape through a hole in the roof.
Thoughts become thoughts, become you.
Track Name: Calendars as Clocks
We started full grown, and how could you have known they've salted the roads. The plan is to swallow you whole.
So get going, we go finding parts, creating bigger holes.
It's a clean brain, we know, that does just what it's told. And so, we see dirt and we roll.

I want the pleasure now. The only thing that really matters. It's not what I'm about, to light a million tiny lanterns just to watch the burn out. An ashy eyeful is ugly youth and the riddle's terrible now because when you get it you forget there was any truth.
And I roll, the floor is cold.
Track Name: Pinkeye
Time on Earth, mostly spent in the dirt.
And nothing hurts, just a name on a shirt.
Time the curse and your screaming alone, "Nothing's worse than faking a home."