People Years is a dream of an amalgamated spitball wadded by the nerdy version of you and made from subterranean and atmospheric particles of bands like Luna, Pavement, Pink Floyd, and LCD Soundsystem, loaded into a straw, and launched into the midnight hair of that Robert Smith-worshipping goth girl named Summer, who sat a few rows in front of you in class. The one who despises everything Americana. The one who seems to know something that the others don't. Summer pinches that spit ball out of her hair like a fly between her thumb and index finger, walks it over in her Doc Martins and ask you in black-lipstick language if you lost something. You stammer. She feigns anger, then brightens. She smiles, and maintains eye contact as she places said spitball on her tongue and disappears it down the proverbial hatch. You're in love.
People Years is a dream of an amalgamated spitball wadded by the nerdy version of you and made from subterranean and atmospheric particles of bands like Luna, Pavement, Pink Floyd, and LCD Soundsystem, loaded into a straw, and launched into the midnight hair of that Robert Smith-worshipping goth girl named Summer, who sat a few rows in front of you in class. The one who despises everything Americana. The one who seems to know something that the others don't. Summer pinches that spit ball out of her hair like a fly between her thumb and index finger, walks it over in her Doc Martins and ask you in black-lipstick language if you lost something. You stammer. She feigns anger, then brightens. She smiles, and maintains eye contact as she places said spitball on her tongue and disappears it down the proverbial hatch. You're in love.
888295981392

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Format: CD
Label: CCAP
Rel. Date: 04/10/2020
UPC: 888295981392

Animalism [Digipak]
Artist: People Years
Format: CD
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People Years is a dream of an amalgamated spitball wadded by the nerdy version of you and made from subterranean and atmospheric particles of bands like Luna, Pavement, Pink Floyd, and LCD Soundsystem, loaded into a straw, and launched into the midnight hair of that Robert Smith-worshipping goth girl named Summer, who sat a few rows in front of you in class. The one who despises everything Americana. The one who seems to know something that the others don't. Summer pinches that spit ball out of her hair like a fly between her thumb and index finger, walks it over in her Doc Martins and ask you in black-lipstick language if you lost something. You stammer. She feigns anger, then brightens. She smiles, and maintains eye contact as she places said spitball on her tongue and disappears it down the proverbial hatch. You're in love.