Текст: Million Dead. Other. Asthma.

It's very late and I'm staring at my first guitar and having doubts about my paramour. I'm kept awake by the whitest noise, the frail voice that made me make a choice i would ignore. I'm reaching for these notes although its easier to sing falsetto than really strain. It's easier to hide behind a line about a troubled mind then to explain; that i am a cat to your asthma, and you are the smoke to my cancer. And i can heal a break by walking on a shattered limb with the bravest grin instead of a tourniquet. But you cant clean a wound by wallowing in words unspoken, vows now broken washing time away. I know that i cant stem the flow with fingertips, the technique wrong, the pulse too strong, im bloodied with my remorse. But you dont leave the scar you scratch at it. In silent halls and empty draws i'll measure out my loss. I am a cat to your asthma, and you were the smoke to my cancer, and you were the care to my violence, but I was the sound to your silence.