No, we aren't ghosts.
Even ghosts have a home to haunt.
No, we aren't ghosts. We open doors and we shed our skin.
No, we aren't ghosts. Open your windows and let us in.
Still and freezing we can see our breath.
Tom told me that the drive was short but the tank is empty.
(Cold concrete and basements.)
We echo in our haunted words.
The strings are fire, the bass is roaring, the beat carries us on.
If our bodies weave into the ground that they stand on they cannot fall down.
As we slowly push the earth into itself it collapses us
and we take photos to remember how great it was to be children
or forgotten faces in the backgrounds of your lives.
We've all been relatives or coworkers.
We've all been forgiven.
As we slowly push the earth into itself,
it collapses us and we take photos.
The song plays on but the record is cracking.
The house is dark, all of the floors are creaking.