And so I left when 
I was just a boy.
I swore I'd simply do it all over again.
And now up the hill with snow-bit,blue-tipped fingers, blood from falling,but 
I can't go back there no more
In frozen poses, venues lined with pillows,
Atlas shouldered some silly blunder or other
You ask for more than this,but 
I don't know what more than this is.
Is it a motel,with a fashion magazine,in between towns?
I was thinking about my motherand 
I wished ill upon myself.
Rachel don't come around here no more.
I hear she's living in 
Montanawith her brother. 
I wish her the best,and 
I hope she can forget me.
But the ghost that comes aroundis a dead-ringer for her.
I see her in my nightmares,discussing modern literaturewith her hands around my neckin a motelwith a fashion magazinein between towns.
I was thinking about my motherand 
I wished ill upon myself.