Your new clothes.

I knew you before all of this.

I knew you before you decided indie rock was cool again -- because someone told you it was.

Before you were into electro. Before all your friends were stylists, artists, and designers.

Before you tucked your jeans into your boots and before you wore your collars high.

Who do you think you are?

You drop your names and make your references, and you pretend you were there. You love My Bloody Valentine but you don't really know why.

Your parties are empty. Your talk is cheap. Your art is vacuous and your intentions are full of deceit.

Your scene won't last forever. Your friends will leave when the drinks run dry and the coke is all gone. Your tongues will be barbed and lashing, and your backs will be bloody and raw.

You watch the games and you play them well. The pawns move and the words move amongst them as you choose to whom you shall whisper.

The nights get cold, and your relationships turn sour.

Yeah everything is cool with me. Yeah I like you just fine; but don't make me any promises -- and don't call me unless it's after dark.