Spill some wine on the season--
He's walking home at 1 am
And full of well gin and reasons
     for both staying and leaving
and dripping orange lamplight
He thinks he'll try and dry out
                                     (sure)
Try sinking in ideas and a couch
                      on his back lawn

Same old thoughts just circle
     overhead in lazy patterns
Synced with beats made by cars passing
   on the street at 2 am.

It's a passion play he's caught in
Passing days with failing stances
Whilst the nights keep passing faster
   into blue-black blurs like bruises.
Open lids to empty coffins
With those thoughts' befuddled movements
--And he's introduced again

And it gets a little lonely
     sitting on that couch with only
     empty bottles and neuroses
     for to break that pattern up
     with another worn out pattern--

For to keep him in cold company.