Screened call from the lyfe robotic, the body & the baby that came out of it or to. Here is the thickblackglasseslessness my summer needed: a melody from the back of the (milk) bottle, a kiss buying passage with a coin. “HowdoIknow,” the spotted rhetoric X marks: read your chorus in a teen magazine refrained as more than a verb. Summer has some basic rules: you are not a time-traveler; you are not a Gatorade commercial about your own will to live; you are not the on whereto these (sticky-hot) sentences run. I love this song for its long, blonde hair & the allowance that in June everything wakes up at once. My unshakeable case of each bug to each jar: an anthem as the perfect coincidence of its own, human clean.