Thirteen Senses - The Salt Wound Routine

Red letters on the dashboard, oh what a gift
They pursue us to the deep end and then depart
Watch as the cracks in the wall feel pain
For only patterns on a snake′s back give us genuine fear

And I cannot lie, faces drop into the fire
I get by all the time on a shelf above the door
And it shouldn′t be clear but it′s not for me to decide
It′s a delicate degree
It′s a number I can see

Could prison cells be in my brain
For they′re safe inside the cover of a dirty face
And everybody finds a college graduate with joy
While I′m happy just sipping tonic water with lemon and lime

And I cannot lie, faces drop into the fire
I get by all the time on a shelf above the door
And it shouldn′t be clear but it′s not for me to decide
It′s a delicate degree
It′s a number I can see

You sit at home up late at night
When it′s beginning to arrive
And honestly
I don′t see the need for any routines
I′m all out of sink, I cover my cuts
And hope they are fixed before I get hurt again

And all this ground beneath my feet
Has decided not to crumble into the sea
I walked in a house, it smelt of paint
And the ceiling it has no trouble with me

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