you'll never look as beautiful as underneath that buzzing streetlightnshouting curse words at the night sky, with tears streaming from your eyesnbut in true classic fashion, i couldn't take cover fast enoughnand the falling voices just fell back onto menni said, things'll make more sense when we're back in californianyeah, things'll make more sense when we're back in californiannlittle did i know that you're composed entirely of cigarettesnand the angry vows you screamed that night were a symphony of empty threatsnoh, but you had my toes tappin, honeynand the melody is still stuck in my headnnso i fear the only thing that'll let me get some sleepnis the music box i found in your chest when we were lying in the streetnbut back on the coast, it seems your blood boils to electro beatsnthere's nothing classic about it, there's nothing classic about itnnyour words are washing up on the beachnplease stop making sense, please stop making senseni can't stand itnnyou said, love has a cruel habit ofnnot lasting the night, not crossing state linesnnso come on,nthere are no sirens sounding,nthere are no burning buildings falling around us,nso that's not love at all, no, not at allnnso come on,nyour lungs aren't collapsing,ni mean, if you're still breathing,nthen really, come on now,nthat's not love at all, no, not at allnnyour words are washing up on the beachnplease stop making sense, please stop making senseni can't stand it