i found my harmonica in the glove box of my car today
and played a little breathing game to sounds
stuck in the lunchtime hollywood summer traffic.

opting out on empty conversations,
i drop everyone's lunch off, set up the table and drive back home.
i sit by the air condition and eat my hot pasta.

i think a lot about how i spend my days
traveling in my head to the obvious places to find
a satisfying conversations that i cannot have in the city anymore.

the closer i get to you, the further i feel from truth.
and the more i think about you the further i feel any sense of sanity
what action are in accordance to words we forget?

the reason she's gone and i'm still here eludes me.
maybe it was to finally learn before i actually leave
what my life could have been here without you.

and i hope for the best for you
and can now say we both tried.

talk about moving on, we move on.
we talking about moving, and we are on
the ugliness that'll finally let us live again.