Target, by Fugazi it's cold outside and my hands are dry skin is cracked and i realize that i hate the sound of guitars a thousand grudging young millionairs forcing silence, sucking sound forced into this conversation so i say shine and let their planets collide this is the darkening down of my mind we could be making it - oiling like crime we could be making it - staking last dimes if you want to seize the sound you don't need a reservation the torch is passed it's yours to return lay at (guitartabs.cc)