A poem set to music. Everyone in the same room all at once (by that, I mean live off the floor, like much of the record). Cinnamon gurls all grown up. Dale’s playing here moves me.

you know my name is figment

i'm not who you think i am

all of my heroes are women

and all of em are cinnamon (my cinnamon women)

the sanding sound of grudge on collective
has left a pile of puzzle dust

and me, cake-drunk in the middle, crying;
'what could never happen to us
is happening to us'

but as long as we're talking in driftnets

and there's a rotation afoot

all the things we can come up with

will still be surprisingly put -

as long as the road

lacks perspective

as long as we swim swim swim

as long as we hold hands in the swiftness

of all three dimensions

as long as we're talking in driftnets
and there's a rotation afoot

all the things we can come up with

will still be surprisingly put

still be surprisingly put

still be surprisingly put