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 mother
And I wished ill upon myself.

Rachel don't come around here no more.
I hear she's living in Montana
With her brother. I wish her the best,
And I hope she can forget me.

But the ghost that comes around
Is a dead-ringer for her.
I see her in my nightmares,
Discussing modern literature
With her hands around my neck

In a motel
With a fashion magazine
In between towns.
I was thinking about my mother
And I wished ill upon myself.