Staring at a trash can, thinking about the things you’ve thrown away. You love our pretty planet, yeah, but not enough to stay.
No, please don’t go! You always took care of your hands. How could you break them like you did? Like a bug on a window.
Is that what you wanted to be? A moment’s pause? All you see is madness. Nobody can show you the method. No please, wait, no!
So I remember you in lyric, recycled soul reborn as ink from a desperate pen. Is that what you wanted to be? Just a topic of mine?
Oh, I dream of your soul, I wish you could know that we grew up so well. Oh, you didn’t know. You didn’t know that soon you’d be okay.
Echoing bellows, so slow like gallows. Is that what you wanted to be? A still life’s pose? A photograph? A story told? A friend I had?
─ Jack Conte, We Grew Up So Well.