Untitled (cont.)/aubade (morning love song)/it's not what you think it is [7-8-9/12]

Tracks 7, 8, and 9 of 12 from the album "just got back from the discomfort-we're alright"
Download it and (almost) all of their albums (with the band's permission) here: http://www.mediafire.com/?xf3mqf3hj3qbq (their last EP is avaliable at QuoteUnquoterecords.com)
Sorry if this one is worse quality than the rest, but it would have taken forever to process the video if I did it in higher quality.

Untiled (Cont.) lyrics:
Every time I cry about your transience, I replace you with the thought of the growing moon as I climb towards it, tell myself "it's not too late," and rest assured that I won't ever have to care about anyone, because it's too late and with you it gets harder to realize it gets harder. Do ever think about...you promised. I want to die when you're not here, because I'm convinced that everyone else thinks I'm a dick. My ideals fog up my windshield and I crash into the houses they depict in their songs.
I want to be a part of you again, face the crowds and turn back again, rediscover why we're turning___
back away, from a town you say has lost all of its meaning, in a way, I can't see the town I only see frustration, and see a landscape, a blank, raw canvas. And yes, we're all our own co-pilots, in our cockpits made of tin, and when we think about each other we despise the states we're in. I can't tell you that it's better, because I'm, truly, not that sure, but I think that this is better because this way we are sure that we're not happy yet.

aubade (morning love song) lyrics:
Yes, I thought our mouths would meet, or at the very least our eyes___
never even tried, ignoring every bit of light that escaped our minds as if we were asleep.
In the morning I'll be fine.
Let me bathe amidst my ignorance as if I were asleep.

it's not what you think it is lyrics:
This is my resignation from the s-c-e-n-e. Hating mtv is getting old. I said no once, got stabbed in the back while they said, "relax". In Sweden, they got it right, I guess, but where does that leave me. Leaving. Always leaving, never staying, good thing my feet are still in tact, it's just my hands that are killing me. Killing someone else may make for better poetry, at least that's what they said. But, at this moment, clarity's appeared, and I am gone, off to what I've found more in: the fact I hate the way I talk! Cynics mock all surroundings, I just wish to live with the ones that instead of hating mtv, beat on the floorboards to wake the tenants that they know are not asleep. The way I'm sure we're not asleep: we woke up in the same bed.
This whole "imaginary underground" has got me thinking, got me dreaming___
If we're all our own co-pilots in our cockpits made of tin and as we fall down hills of pavement___
It's time I grew and said to them "it's not what you think it is".
__we analyze the states we're in, why is it that when we sneeze there's a chance we'll die alone__
Alone, that's what I hope I'll want to be when all acquaintance leaves me, because if I don't, who knows, I might just see that no one needs me seeing.