Sigur Ros is for cold nights.When the violin is shrieking the crescendo in your ears as you force long and hasty steps into the oblivion. You count the blocks leading to home, or well..the concept of home at least. 4,3,2,1, now what?
The pictures have been torn off, the bed has too many pillows, the lovers who are having a hard time communicating. I want to be with the one I love. I'm trying to remember what you are. The illusion that became real. I know, you know? I know what you feel like, honest. Its like frost biting down on your alveoli.
Walking fast, God beating against her chest, she thinks about this. She thinks about the branches that have extended from her tree-like self, bearing good fruit, bad fruit, useless fruit, memorable fruit.
Your skin sends shivers down my spine. Your fingerprints leave marks on my face and when you kiss my back, I die inside. I turn the volume up to feel close to the rhythm, to let it move me, to let it surround me in its cloud of pixie dust and silk ribbons. Sometimes I get so tired I hallucinate. Things and people come to me in weird shapes and sizes. And stare me down. I feel their presence when I block everyone and everything out. Your way of life, I fear my dear, is eons different than mine. Still we hang around. You pull me out of the water only after I've drowned.
The leaves shiver in fear of the wind. He watches and dreams for the princess crying in the window.