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Songs (20)
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You talked to me that day
the warmth of a loaf of bread
I told you it wasn't me
the last letter
a wheelbarrow and a microphone
a pass that smells like ramen
the back of one's mother's hand
The first beat made by the three of us
It hurts more to say stop
a note in one's work clothes
I took root in those words
Just looking at it
mirror
waste me
Rhythm
I mean it
Prison
Cosmetic surgery
Good-bye
A song that I write to myself
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Provided courtesy of Apple Music.