My hands are always cold with no one left to hold them. My scars, a little too visible. My memory, a little too lonesome. Sitting under a bridge thinking, about the trainspotting pipe smokers. Letting my mind carry me off tryin' to catch some of that smolder ed green that burns in my bronchioles. That grows to trees in my mind. Can anyone save us, who can see in a world that's gone blind?