These years aren't long enough to drag out the past.
These ears aren't strong enough to drag this fucking anchor.
Meanwhile, a train passes through the empty holes of your lungs
and fills what's left with smoke and blackened track marks.
So we hide in museums and wait for the sky to fall.
Down the motion and watch it drift into the ocean.
Now the night never ends in this room anymore.
Meanwhile, a thorn drives through the sides of your time
and tears straight through these metaphors and into what I really need to say.
So we hide in museums and wait for the sky to fall and finish us all.