My voice is a whisper sung beneath an open chord
The hum from the TV can easily be ignored
And I think we should get away to
A place where nobody knows our names
Where nobody knows our names
Shutter exposing landscapes of vast decay
Slowly eroding what I was going to say
So I'll read The Old Farmer's Almanac
To predict when sunlight will warm our backs
When sunlight will warm our backs
My neurons, they fire causing cells to perspire
As they struggle securing my skin to my frame
If you only knew how much you meant to me
Then you would join me, and we'd take the next train
Where I'll catch my breath and sink fast into my seat
You'll read me some translation from an elder cacique
And pine trees streak green as they pass me
You reach for my knee and ask "What is happening?"
Ask what is happening
Between the white caps on the mountains and the white caps on the waves
There are parts to our lives we simply can't save
Now at this point I'm bad at conversation
I stumble and I don't know what else to say