There's a string of lights hanging up at your place. The same street. They're more colorful than I remember, this year. Tip toe in the room, the party is here just for you, you know. We are hiding to celebrate. We don't have to choose our ways. Our ways tell us, "time has run short." Skeleton's walking down the catwalk, covered in ink, and I don't know what they sound like. The volume's off and I don't mind. I hear the static of my neighbor's breathing this time. He holds his breath while I look up. He looks back. This is not the time for him, but he is still breathing. You know you have sold yourself short, and I can feel it creeping in. You've sold yourself short, and now you can't stop dreaming it out. It's useless. God writes me letters in words too small to read. The other leaves me cards to guess what could've been and what I can't foresee. I've got a bad brain, it's no good. You've sold yourself short. Don't make me your lights in there, hang me somewhere else
