You go to work and I go back to bed.
You’re always pissed at all the rest I get.
I’ll write you a letter like I always did
and sign it with my awful penmanship.
The thought consumes me, oh, it always does.
I can’t escape - it’s in my bones and blood.
So I’ll throw myself in to the void again
and get sucked up in whatever is left.
I always wake from a dream with my arms in front of me holding on to a large cartoonish bomb and nothing ever goes wrong; it always goes right off and then I’m left with the clean up.
Carolina Void, you’re in my cough, you’re in my empty cup.
Carolina Void, you’re just like smoke, you’re in my chest and lungs.