Lletres: Okkervil River. This House Is Not A Home.

Floating up to the top of the sea, sunlight and I'm sorry
Chocolate and condolences from the boy who hit me
Lying in an infirmary bed in the starch and silence
Watching birds as they hit the screen, suddenly in slow motion

Floating up from being born, my throat all hot and bloody
Watching doctors drift through the room, the light is slipping quietly
The sheets are on. The bed is gone. The building isn't floating
My other birth is hiding behind the plastic curtains

Her eyes you'd think you lost something, slipped through your many rooms
Cold got in the middle of the night and cracked the bathroom mirror
This house is not a home, you say, and I've got fourteen fingers
The autumn holds your hand and sits beside you in an armchair

Other's face steams in the cold, the doorknob sob's behind you
So hold yourself so hold yourself, with practice, in a movie
This world is not your own but when you're gone it's going to miss you
This world is not your own, and all the women, as they kiss you
Are fading fast, and wouldn't last, you exit from this old house
The window's cracking casing, the pictures painted clovers
They tell you all their secrets, in which they're spreading rumours
This world is not your own but when you're gone, it's going to miss you
This world is not your own, but when you're gone, it's going to miss you