All these fucking songs, their meaning becoming blurred
Nothing more than exit wounds of every misfired word
Pressing pen to paper, disguising facts as fiction
If only the tactility could touch me back from extinction

Memories are vehicles
For sorrow
That's why we must dream about
Tomorrow

Crunching underfoot, like short, harmful words
This wasn't snow, these were skeletons of birds
And I felt them, they were trying to move
As if not having flesh gave them something to prove

Memories are vehicles
For sorrow
That's why we must dream about
Tomorrow

Crushed bones, like sand in the hourglass
Pulverized time, white grass
And they all raised their beaks towards the blackened sky
The world covered in dead birds trying to fly

Memories are vehicles
For sorrow
That's why we must dream about
Tomorrow