Farsickness - Blake Mills

I’ve got a farsickness

Bringing out the purple in the trees

In what I’d always thought up

As being brown, being brown, being brown

I am still in the cupola

Wondering about your cryptic dream

A single piece of sushi made

From porcelain, from porcelain, from porcelain

Little do I remember

Of what I saw the night we first

Slept inside of warm skin

Remember, remember, remember

I’ve got a farsickness

For the open edge of anywhere

To vanish up an endless stair

On apple pies, and Julian I don’t care