Lived in a small flat, in a charmless town
With some other guys, it was so lovely
I think of past times and how we lived
Of all these beers and blues, that we tasted
There was the master cook, sometimes stoned
A mellow frequenter in every hospital
And the guitar hero with the big, black beard
Yes, he rides his bike like a crazy shit dog
I would rather be here all the time
Waking up by voices and see sleepy faces
Even if this place is full of grime
You can't be lonely here
Now we are nearby but not there
We always drive past, only thinking
But all these thoughts will fade away
Now I create a poem, so I remember
I would rather be here all the time
Waking up by voices and see sleepy faces
Even if this place is full of grime
You can't be lonely here
When I packed my bags, I asked myself
What are you actually doing here, are you actually doing here
Maybe it will never be the same again, the same again
What are you actually doing here, are you actually doing here
It's a process we have to go through
Come face the truth, come face the truth, you know, you know, you know
No options, only moving out
No time to doubt, no time to doubt
What are you actually doing here, are you actually doing here
What are you actually doing
A melancholic haze that, if you let it in, will grab your ears, hold you tight, and won't relent, not until you've broken. Bandcamp New & Notable Nov 28, 2014