Quiet nights when I find out just what I’m afraid of—
The last we spoke it was ages ago in July.
All I have for some cold company are cicadas.
To quiet thoughts I’ll just turn to my old standby—yellow and lined.
To help me cope, I’ll just turn to my old standby—yellow and lined.
All I have are endless spiral notebooks.
My house is lonely; it’s the only one on Grimes
The pages there are the poorest simulacrum.
Do you remember the way we talked sometimes?
Quiet nights when I find out just what I’m afraid of—
The last we spoke it was ages ago in July.
And all I have for some cold company are cicadas.
To help me cope, I’ll just turn to my old standby—yellow and lined.
All I have are endless spiral notebooks.
My house is empty; there’s no one to hear me whine.
A silence ringing so that I can hear each pen stroke.
Do you remember the way we talked sometimes?
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