Sickness grabs me by the hand
And the cramp in my left leg warns me
That if the nails of my hand are painted
With some blue polish from I don't know where
There is probably
A lot of things
That I should remember (or maybe not, afterall)
And between the cramp in the morning and the falling
There is no space
And it is filled up with nightmares
And they are all about you

And an L-trainful of hipsters is rushing towards me
And between the tight jeans and the second hand scarves
And every baseball hat
There is a way to bump into you
And if they play my songs in the coffee store
After the e-mail
And the laundry
They would be all about you
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