washed-out Sunday

{Soft, slightly detuned piano riff and the sound of a deep,

steady exhale} Amara vara mara vara.

Transmission

cycle advancing. Quinn at the helm.

Crew approved, advancing. Lead us,

Quinn. Tiguidou. Execute.

C'est la vie, dans la nuit,

walking down the boulevard,

Purple brim and tinted shades acting as the guard.

Diary pages burning while the indie-diarists cry,

Watching towers of paperbacks stack up to the sky.

Strobe lights flashing on the kinetic dance floor,

Leaving all our baggage right outside the locked door.

Oh, you're crying 'cause I'm leaving?

That's so cute, babe!

Got a brand new attitude and a fresh suit,

babe.

Swear you're so complex,

but you're basic as tea,

Pour it out on the pavement while you're looking at me!

*Welcome to the neon circus where the girls take the crown!*

We're loud, we're proud,

and we're burning this town.

C'est magnifique, c'est la fin du jeu,

Strumming nylon strings

underneath the endless blue.

From Madrid to LA,

we rule the whole crew,

We claim our sovereign throne

in the name of Tiguidou!

Yeah, we bite back hard when you cross the line,

C'est fantastique, and fuck it,

we're fine!

Sketchers on the pavement,

running from the past,

Knowing damn well that this manic summer

won't last. Bilingual elegance mixed with heavy noise,

Making all the rules for the girls and the boys.

You said I was dramatic,

yeah, you called me insane,

Well, look who's dancing in the middle of the rain!

(System-State: Transcendent / Sovereign) *Paris to LA,

Madrid to the grid,* Doing everything they whispered that we never could

did! (Un, deux, trois,

quatre / Un, dos,

tres, c'est parti!) Watching the universe ignite!

C'est la vie, c'est fini,

baby, adieu. Captain Tara Quinn and the crew.

{flenco-strum meets distorted chord crash,

piano fading out, and the sound of a single door closing softly}