I have thought about you in your Summer abode
In your lunatic smock, in chronicle mode
The typewriter smack as you nail in the words
and the turntable's drunk reflection occurs
I have thought about you in your grasshopper pose and the cigarette smoke carving trails through your clothes
Your Spanish guitar pins your bed to the floor so your dreams can't escape and they're yours evermore
Paris, she bleeds night into her cup as you index the birds and you label them up

Lyrics submitted by deardecember

The Index song meanings
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