You ask yourselves what's real, and for sale
You grip your lovely things, you do
You say, this time, you'll be certain
This time, you'll be, again
Sometimes in the night, I call you, hoping you'd return
Then I find that you are missing, and you won't come back until the morning
You twist yourself over everything
You grip yourself, all over again; every day
And you cry, you moan, you break, all of your things
You say this time, you'll be certain
Sometimes in the night, I call you, hoping you'd return
Then I find that you are missing, and you won't come back until the morning