Из альбома: Perfect Future
with a pen held tight in the palm of my hand,
I let ink spill like spit,
in hopes of some sort of genius accidentally spilling out.
with a pick held loosely I strum strings which produce notes I've already heard
in hopes of stumbling across the chords that brush past hearts to produce thoughts.
but there are no words left in me.
but there are no chords left in me.
so let's manufacture inspiration
because if all i have is you.
if all I have is you then I have all I need.