Well, say what ya' mean then, honey
The universe is used to the sad, sick pull of foreign bodies
is used to secrets that are all revealed eventually, eventually
and though it's used to incredibly hot and bright and heavy things
the universe is not used to warmth, or light, or contact of any kind
the universe knows a great deal about dying, but nothing about pain
large things rip themselves apart and manage to never make a sound
quiet death, frozen death, fading away to...to...to someplace else
there are some lonely stretches of land dying slowly in this country
and I only wish that I wasn't speaking from experience when I say
that the land cries when you pass over it, it begs for you to stop
to lie on the dried up mound of its heart and listen to its stories
listen to it tell you about true seclusion, about size and no power
eventually you'll walk away, like everyone does, and you will forget
and the world will go on, much as it always has, telling the same
stories and receiving the same silent responses, being subject to
the same translucent memories of being cut from the outside in
being taken apart piece by piece, and how we all flock to make
excuses about how it's better, how it's what we all truly need
somewhere along the way we lost the poetry of it all, and I lost
the ability to care about trying to retrieve it, so we'll continue
down this road that's a mile wide and thick, cruising in our car
without windows, and oh, doesn't that suit us all so well?
is used to secrets that are all revealed eventually, eventually
and though it's used to incredibly hot and bright and heavy things
the universe is not used to warmth, or light, or contact of any kind
the universe knows a great deal about dying, but nothing about pain
large things rip themselves apart and manage to never make a sound
quiet death, frozen death, fading away to...to...to someplace else
there are some lonely stretches of land dying slowly in this country
and I only wish that I wasn't speaking from experience when I say
that the land cries when you pass over it, it begs for you to stop
to lie on the dried up mound of its heart and listen to its stories
listen to it tell you about true seclusion, about size and no power
eventually you'll walk away, like everyone does, and you will forget
and the world will go on, much as it always has, telling the same
stories and receiving the same silent responses, being subject to
the same translucent memories of being cut from the outside in
being taken apart piece by piece, and how we all flock to make
excuses about how it's better, how it's what we all truly need
somewhere along the way we lost the poetry of it all, and I lost
the ability to care about trying to retrieve it, so we'll continue
down this road that's a mile wide and thick, cruising in our car
without windows, and oh, doesn't that suit us all so well?