Текст: Dashboard Confessional. Alter The Ending. Hell On The Throat.

A line of strands to mark the trail,
no one said it would be easy.

I must admit I thought the risk was better waged in younger seasons,
but all these years in the cold play hell on the throat
till everything I say burns like cinders,
why it's hard to belong to a girl or a song
and the crease of a strangling winter

It's strange to be lost, stranger still to be lone
in the strings of a twisting line.
Along the way the turns are sharp,
no one said they would be easy,
I must admit I thought the trip was better in younger seasons.
But all these years in the pursuit made a man of a fool,
till every word I say is on waver.

Why it's hard to belong to a girl or a song
in the case of a selfish believer,
it's strange to be lost and stranger still to be lone
in the strings in a twisting line [x2]

And when the path I have made
from the grass to the grave,
I will love you still.
And when the sand turns to glass
and all that's left is the past
and I will love you still.