R.T.S.
Weekends are a bit weird these days, a clumsy solo through the keep-your-life-afloat score quite clearly composed to be performed by two. Not mown the lawn in ages, that shower seal still leaks. Mountains of laundry, piles of plates, can't see me getting through all that this week. Conversation's quite one-sided, it turns out me and I have got fuck all interesting to talk about.
Don't look now but that ground you think you're standing safely on is rotting right through and falling to bits. And you're so used to it being there you let it fall into disrepair unchecked, and only noticed now that it's way too far gone to fix.
Finally got round to taking all your pictures down today. Place looks a bit bare but feels less like somewhere something or someone passed away and kind of helps to mentally dissociate two lives tangled for so long I'm not sure they'll ever fully separate no matter how many relics I've interred. Still search terms on my laptop, and name in all my passwords, and letters with it on that won't stop dropping through the flap, even though i always scrawl 'R.T.S. - not at this address' and send them back.
Don't look now but that ground you think you're standing safely on is rotting right through and falling to bits. And you're so used to it being there you let it fall into disrepair unchecked, and only noticed now that it's way too far gone to fix.
I wonder how much of yourself erodes, what proportion gets spent. Does each successive sucker only get about 90% of what you were offering up the time before? the other 10 lost to sorry and guilt and making fucking sure you don't drag you or anyone else here again, fine-tuning your ejector seat to stop being up at 3am staring at ceilings, mind never quite letting go, wondering if you did the right thing, and all you could, and how you'll never fucking know.
Don't look now but that ground you think you're standing safely on is rotting right through and falling to bits. And you're so used to it being there you let it fall into disrepair unchecked, and only noticed now that it's way too far gone to fix.
Don't look now but that ground you think you're standing safely on is rotting right through and falling to bits. And you're so used to it being there you let it fall into disrepair unchecked, and only noticed now that it's way too far gone to fix.
Finally got round to taking all your pictures down today. Place looks a bit bare but feels less like somewhere something or someone passed away and kind of helps to mentally dissociate two lives tangled for so long I'm not sure they'll ever fully separate no matter how many relics I've interred. Still search terms on my laptop, and name in all my passwords, and letters with it on that won't stop dropping through the flap, even though i always scrawl 'R.T.S. - not at this address' and send them back.
Don't look now but that ground you think you're standing safely on is rotting right through and falling to bits. And you're so used to it being there you let it fall into disrepair unchecked, and only noticed now that it's way too far gone to fix.
I wonder how much of yourself erodes, what proportion gets spent. Does each successive sucker only get about 90% of what you were offering up the time before? the other 10 lost to sorry and guilt and making fucking sure you don't drag you or anyone else here again, fine-tuning your ejector seat to stop being up at 3am staring at ceilings, mind never quite letting go, wondering if you did the right thing, and all you could, and how you'll never fucking know.
Don't look now but that ground you think you're standing safely on is rotting right through and falling to bits. And you're so used to it being there you let it fall into disrepair unchecked, and only noticed now that it's way too far gone to fix.
Credits
Writer(s): Alastair James Sweeney
Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com
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