What will we do with all these words when we die? Will they spend like currency in our afterlife? Always waiting on a world that will never come Always standing in line Sinking feelings, inexplicably But always leaning towards some sort of light So where are we going And how does it feel where we are now With all our sentimental songs siphoning out? What will we do with all the time we'll have once we die? Will we trade our memories, Change all the endings, Revise what was each other's lives? I'll haunt the house you dreamed about But you never saw the inside I'll sing in your voice And you could sing in mine So where are we going And how does it feel where we are now With all our faculties like rooms emptying out? With the tethering stress of the breath in our lungs And the sounds of the women and the men And the endless undone-ness of everyone And this sense that nothing is over and nothing's begun yet.