All my life, treading paper in the space between the words, and they're implies that I'm but another body for the birds.
Carrying on, a sudden accident, a light I'm speeding in.
Carrying on, waiting off another non-yielding despair.
Then you're wrong for a moment until we can ascertain.
Something's wrong with me or the assumptions of your self-indicted brain.
Second, tell me all of this is more than just a meaning luxury.
Each and every moment is a bottle with a message it weighs.
I have to tell a different story.
I can't feel a different pulse. And anything means anything.
There must be something meant for us to be.
Anything means anything. There must be something meant for us to be.
Something we've already seen. There must be so much more that we can see.
Something meant for us to be.
A touch too much too soon. Good cast away with you. Good cast away with you.
Your words can't hear cause they hide. Can't spend another day with you. Can't spend another day with you.
These two words are making me lost.
