The men who are suffering throughout Marcus Foster's beautiful folk songs are continually at odds with self-assurance and complete chaos, or a mind that is like a fishbowl, filled with plastic treasure chests, fake pirates, colorful pebbles and big-eyed goldfish floating around. These guys have knocked themselves out, smacked themselves silly, trying to make sense of love for so long that they're just about through with the venture. They've found that the more they think they know, the less that it works in practice and it could just mean that knowing less would suit them better and the aggravation would lessen as much as would be possible.
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