An unmade bed and three words all too rarely said,
We share a sickness, expanding roots beneath the ground,
Deeper and stronger they tie us down.

Heaven knows in desperate times that I get too self-referential, I can hardly bare to sing a song so blue,
We were drowning in an ocean of misplaced potential, staking claim to what we knew,
We invented our realities, and painted crazy fantasies on any scrap of paper we could find,
Preposterous conspiracies, and antidote to too much dumb bureaucracy, we fought free of the bind.

You said you had a hunch, that Gilesgate bank conceals a mausoleum, corpses buried under foot, where nobody can see them, all the residents of yesteryear reside, in secret dwellings underneath the street, trapped dissatisfied. And as silly as it was, I saw some truth in your tall tale, because everybody loses sometimes, everybody fails, these grim reminders underfoot keep us in check, the roots that drag us down, are the things we cant forget.

Origami planes and pillows with stupid names,
My composure crumpled by that creaky chair,
So I took a walk to clear my head, but because of force of habit,
I reached out to grab a hand that wasn't there.