Red letters on the dashboard, oh what a gap
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They pursue us to the deep end and then depart
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Watch as the cracks in the wall feel pain
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For only patterns on a snake's back give us genuine fear
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And I cannot lie, faces drop into the fire
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I get by all the time on a shelf above the door
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And it shouldn't be clear but it's not for me to decide
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It's a delicate degree
|
It's a number I can see
|
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Could prison cells be in my brain
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For they're safe inside the cover of a dirty face
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And everybody finds a college graduate with joy
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While I'm happy just sipping tonic water with lemon and lime
|
|
And I cannot lie, faces drop into the fire
|
I get by all the time on a shelf above the door
|
And it shouldn't be clear but it's not for me to decide
|
|
It's a delicate degree
|
It's a number I can see
|
|
You sit at home up late at night
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When it's beginning to arrive
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And honestly
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I don't see the need for any routines
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I'm all out of sink, I cover my cuts
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And hope they are fixed before I get hurt again
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And all this ground beneath my feet
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Has decided not to crumble into the sea
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I walked in a house, it smelt of paint
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And the ceiling it has no trouble with me
|
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The Salt Wound Routine
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| Thirteen Senses |
