Lyrics

We are the blues: faces painted in low light on a canvas of shitty apartment floors and foreign bedrooms where I've been up all night trying to decide whether or not I'm still alive, or if that sound upstairs is someone making love or someone getting raped, or if Van Gogh's Starry Night is sad because he meant it to be sad or because I want it to be sad. Please, tell me it's his fault and not mine.