Sitting in a quiet corridor of a forgotten house all night,
Sipping alcohol they talked all about the black and the white, the wrong from the right.
Squeaky walls and the acoustics of Ben Howard,
The lonely evenings when the emotions brew
That is when your demons talk to you
The Silence is almost fatal
And the emptiness inside of you rocks your cradle
Misty mornings and those first sips of caffeine..
Winding and unwinding in those shapeless clouds of Nicotine..
That taste of Bitter love, left at the corner of her lips..