More often then not, I don't know what to do, all the time.
A familiar feeling finds itself in the grooves of my ribs
how did they put it?
Memory will rust and erode into lists of all that you gave me:
a blanket, some matches, this pain in my chest,
the best parts of Lonely, duct-tape and soldered wires,
new words for old desires,
and every birthday card I threw away.
A familiar feeling finds itself in the grooves of my ribs
how did they put it?
Memory will rust and erode into lists of all that you gave me:
a blanket, some matches, this pain in my chest,
the best parts of Lonely, duct-tape and soldered wires,
new words for old desires,
and every birthday card I threw away.