Thirteen Senses - Salt Wound Routine

Red letters on the dashboard, oh what a gap
They pursue us to the deep end and then depart
Watch as the cracks in the wall feel pain
For only patterns on a snake`s back give us genuine fear

And I cannot lie, faces drop into the fire
I get by all the time on a shelf above the door
And it shouldn`t be clear but it`s not for me to decide
It`s a delicate degree
It`s a number I can see

Could prison cells be in my brain
For they`re safe inside the cover of a dirty face
And everybody finds a college graduate with joy
While I`m happy just sipping tonic water with lemon and lime

And I cannot lie, faces drop into the fire
I get by all the time on a shelf above the door
And it shouldn`t be clear but it`s not for me to decide
It`s a delicate degree
It`s a number I can see

You sit at home up late at night
When it`s beginning to arrive
And honestly
I don`t see the need for any routines
I`m all out of sink, I cover my cuts
And hope they are fixed before I get hurt again

And all this ground beneath my feet
Has decided not to crumble into the sea
I walked in a house, it smelt of paint
And the ceiling it has no trouble with me