What will we do with all these words when we die?Will they spend like currency in our afterlife?Always waiting on a world that will never comeAlways standing in lineSinking feelings, inexplicablyBut always leaning towards some sort of lightSo where are we goingAnd how does it feel where we are nowWith all our sentimental songs siphoning out?What will we do with all the time we'll have once we die?Will we trade our memoriesChange all the endingsRevise what was each other's lives?I'll haunt the house you dreamed aboutBut you never saw the insideI'll sing in your voiceAnd you could sing in mineSo where are we goingAnd how does it feel where we are nowWith all our faculties like rooms emptying out?With the tethering stress of the breath in our lungsAnd the sounds of the women and the menAnd the endless undone-ness of everyoneAnd this sense that nothing is over and nothing's begun yet
