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Sickness grabs me by the hand |
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And the cramp in my left leg warns me |
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That if the nails of my hands are painted |
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With some blue polish from i don't know where |
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There is probably a lot of things that i should remember |
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Or maybe not after all |
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And between the cramp in the morning and the falling |
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There is no space |
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And it is filled up with nightmares and they're all about you |
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And they're all about you |
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And an L-train full of hipsters is rushing towards me |
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And between the tight jeans and the second-hand scarves |
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And every baseball hat |
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There is a way to bump into you |
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And if they play my songs in the coffee store |
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After the e-mail and the laundry, they would be all about you |
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They would be all about you |
