| A terrible man, a desperate | 
| attempt to make amends | 
| wrote a song for a girl or | 
| could not but just imagined, | 
| about something he read | 
| once, about static and | 
| distance, but he just simply | 
| could not without feeling | 
| terribly vain and incredibly | 
| distant, about recent | 
| encounters, about love and | 
| affliction, ziplocks and plastic | 
| containers, the gentleness | 
| of her kisses, | 
| about the possible cancer | 
| that has manifested in | 
| the mirror far right of his | 
| forehead, about a world that | 
| could never be kind, never | 
| be kind, never be kind, never | 
| be kind, about the taste of | 
| tree sap, about growing old, | 
| about his fear of the cold and | 
| the darkness at age 27 and | 
| how foolish does that make | 
| him, bundled up in the cold, | 
| afraid of the dark at age 27, | 
| a song for a girl, he knew | 
| he’d never quite finish, in the | 
| drunk breath of Autumn, in | 
| all its glory and strangeness, | 
| we can hide, we can hide, | 
| we can hide, we can hide, | 
| you are mine, you are mine, | 
| you are mine, you are mine. |