Seems like the roads stretch out like veins, but there's no heart
Nature's haircut is concrete now, and we played our part
So we sing

I've lost my taste for modern things They're not for me
I want mundane: a quiet place, where time is free,
And I can sing

Climbed from my bed, to collect the thoughts that'd fallen from my head,
And you watched me sink, through the carpet, through the basement, and beyond
And you didn't blink

On the glass, I traced the sun with my thumb It sank into the ground
And then the stars were blinking, like kids who were staring into the wind
So I climbed through the window and walked until I lost my name
Now I can play the victim It's fine I've seen it on TV
But if there's one thing I know, it's that I never really know enough

Our heads, our hands, our brains, our lungs: they're just machines
These hearts are all that we've got left, and they don't beat

Live a little, talk a lot; it's the way this goes
I've come to fear the little knives beneath their well-pressed clothes
Their arms are reaching; reach is spreading through the neon glow
Their mouths are moving, but their voices sound like telephones
The traffic hums; the traffic grumbles near my old window
The street lights flicker; glow and hover like suspended snow
I used to watch the moon retreat and wonder where it goes
Now I just wonder why my head is overrun with ghosts