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Hands in lineArms close to my sideI'm fighting tides of an ocean's undertowAnd I figure that I might not make itAnd I'm waking emptyBut seldom speakingAnd the words retreat breathing histories into storiesuntoldAnd I unfold.My hands are highAnd I'm holding out, holding upBecause I figure that I just might make itAnd I'm waking empty but seldom sleepingAnd the words repeat breathing histories into storiesuntoldAnd I unfold.Quality is what you see now in the corner of your eye.Don't be surprised if you hear the bells ringThey form from the sky and they sound bong, bong, bongAnd I'm holding up because I figure that I just make it.And I'm waking empty but seldom sleepingAnd the words repeat breathing histories into storiesuntold
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