(RIFF) Excuses pour out so easily and I've never had a trouble with the frequency. But it needs a mate to calm me down, postcards and phones calls to a long distance small town. And I've never been good with secrets to keep, but I can lie white, right through my teeth. That current takes us, and we breathe it in. Mistakes in old friends to a short coming, quick end. An empty-eyed blank stare at an atlas, I'm lost without a map or compass. And I revise and I rewrite. I'm drowning in long nights, late drives with old ghosts, I'm an index of footnotes. And I'm sick, sick, sick of my complaining, that rhetoric that I've been writing. That blood red bled from ink to pen, I'm blue/black backwards, I am paper thin. (RIFF plays softer towards the end)
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