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Lyrics
We smoked the night, a kind familiar weed,
And we tried to trade our rented souls for sleep.
But the gods, at best, were hungry pests, crouched in worship at our feet.
Our souls weren't worth their tortured births,
And their dreams weren't worth the shit we bleed.
And she said she'd never once closed her eyes. I was wrong to ask her why,
Because she told me what she meant, and I haven't closed mine since.
I sit down, the static rolls gently. Breakwater sound, the T.V. set's empty.
She wakes up, remembers the bad dreams. There's no one around,
At least they were her dreams.
And honey-chile sleeps, he sleeps in the hallway. He feels for the cracks,
He circles the bad days.
And all we want is more and more, but nobody really knows where the money goes.
She's upstairs writing cold war poetry, and high school drama club scenes,
She wonders how her love life reads.
And I'm out back in a tolulene haze, dreaming of the salad days,
I wonder if I'll go away.
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