Texty: Dead Letter Office. Complications. Paper Aeroplane Pilots.

I built a portal to your window.
Out of empty cans and wires.
And in the dark we named our children.
We named them after towns we couldn't even spell.

Here comes the flood.

You said your father was a pilot,
with bloodshot eyes that burned like coals.
But all I saw was a sinker,
You should have taught him how to float.

Here comes the flood