In November I was painting ‘cause I ran out of songs
I was sitting at the edge of nowhere something had gone wrong
I was talking and coughing and looking for the truth
But I did not feel a thing I was just like a dead tooth

I was hanging on the telly while the season turned to spring
I was writing on my wrist and still didn’t feel a thing

The stuff that I had painted was now falling off the walls
My friends had all gone fishing there was no one I could call
There was a picture of a field with the streetlights in a row
The sky was slowly fading and the clouds were hanging low

I was starving for a feeling an idea at least a curse
I was drinking like a madman looking for a nurse

There were still too many summers they were bound to crush me dead
There was sunlight on my pillow and oceans in my head

There were people in my room and they spoke without a sound
While I dreamed I fell off buildings and never hit the ground