Thirty-five thousand feet of despair
The flaming lips
Another moth disintegrates,
Hovering in the beam of a searchlight that's looking for a trace of a plane whose pilot it's a shame has gone insane.
You can see the silhouette across the moon,
He hung himself mid-flight in the bathroom.
Hovering in the beam of a searchlight that's looking for a trace of a plane whose pilot it's a shame has gone insane.
You can see the silhouette across the moon,
He hung himself mid-flight in the bathroom.
Why is it so high?
Why is it so much?
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