Excuses pour out so easily and I've never had
A trouble with the frequency
It needs a mate to calm me down
Postcards and phones calls to a long distance small town
And I've never been good with secrets to keep
But I can lie white, right through my teeth

That current takes us, and we breathe it in
Mistakes in old friends to a short coming, quick end
An empty-eyed blank stare at an atlas
I'm lost without a map or compass
And I revise and I rewrite
I'm drowning in long nights, late drives with old ghosts
I'm an index of footnotes

And I'm sick, sick, sick of my complaining
That rhetoric that I've been writing
That blood red bled from ink to pen
I'm blue black backwards, I am paper thin