You expected my war diaries, but time ran out and I, I let you downnA small thanks note written in French is no shorthand for this thing gave me writer's crampnnAnother dream about shapeshiftingnWell we move with such elegance, with such gracenWith all our dignity just in placennDeer die with their eyes wide open, eyes wide open, eyes wide opennDeer die with their eyes wide opennnDrawing tiny little pictures of skeletons to get across the sense of impending doomnAnd the leaves like the artwork to major leagues look like dead foxes on the hard shouldernAnd for some reason I think that I attributed this story to the bypass of the town I hadn't visited, so goes the backing track of all the sighs we'd ever sighednnDeer die with their eyes wide open, eyes wide open, eyes wide opennDeer die with their eyes wide opennnDrawing tiny little pictures of skeletons to get across the sense of impending doom and I am 17 pages through this notebook now and there are little more than pictures of how I see you in an X-ray machinenThat's more like a television screennAnd you're in a rut, and I know that you know what I meannAnd then the realisation hits that not even two gospel choirs could save us nownnTurn up on your doorstepnFeeling like roadkillnTasting like postage stampsnAnd when I touch younYou fold up like an envelopenWith everything I ever wrotenPouring out of your mouth.