Sleep don't visit, so I choke on sun And the days blur into one And the backs of my eyes hum with things I've never done Sheets are swaying from an old clothesline Like a row of captured ghosts over old dead grass Was never much but we made the most

Sleep don't visit, so I choke on sun And the days blur into one And the backs of my eyes hum with things I've never done Sheets are swaying from an old clothesline Like a row of captured ghosts over old dead grass Was never much but we made the most