Here is the song lyric of The New Pornographers : and you can also sing and watch music video
When the contact high from the real life adventures wear off, you find, in
the tiny moments that bomb, your old files rain down from the sky. And
would they fall down, like cymbal crashes, would the alarm bell sound?
Would your eyelashes keep all this in time? If not, I won't mind... it can
be impractical. So can you tell me why in every version of the events shown
here, there's another season that crawls by like years, from blown speakers
clear? It came out magical. Just a contact high, one in every mood I've
ever declined to fight, one in every single exchange you might find. From
blown speakers, time came out magical. It came out magical, out from blown
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