Your friends made a plan and it was a disaster. It was left to you to salvage it. You went into it cold, but you became a master. You found the best slots for them to fit. But then they expected you to handle each facet. They'd just show up to make complaints to you. Then the deadlines, they passed, and you were the last one. You gathered up the blame and locked the gate behind you. Then you fell in love with various cast-offs. You made a safe place for them to stay. You'd work until you were sore, and though they were thankful, their experiences made it hard to say. But the bills built up high, yeah. Oh, they would stack up, so you would work more, you'd steal, you'd plead. But the pressures were strong. And, because you were the last one, they made it the betrayal they had prepared to see. Bare ceiling lights on a hardwood floor. Gather up the mast, find a new cast. You are a reservoir. You came in late, yeah, and you felt so anxious. You just stood behind the final pew. All these people you loved mourning one they abandoned. You slipped out before anyone saw you. Then at the station, in line, yeah, you were the last one that they had room for on the train. You handed your ticket off to some kid who just asked you. You found a bench, pulled your hood up and tried not to dream. Chorus.
The New York artist uses addictive pop hooks and melancholic, baroque electronics to reframe her recent traumas into an empowering narrative of growth and transformation Bandcamp Album of the Day Oct 13, 2021