BRIGHT EYES / / / Waste of Paint
So I park my car down by the cathedral
Where the floodlights point up at the steeples
Practice is filling up with people
I hear the sound escaping as an echo
Sloping off the ceiling at an angle
When the voices blend they sound like angels
I hope there’s some room still in the middle
But when lift my voice up now to reach them
The range is too high way up in heaven
So I hold my tongue, forget the song
Tie my shoes, start walking off
And try to just keep moving on
With my broken heart and my absent god
And I have no faith but it’s all I want
To be loved
And believe
In my soul, in my soul
The Haunted Typewriter 