i thought again about ya eric.
i took a bus past the house i grew up in,
but it's just some walls to keep the warm air in.
you're just a number on a scrap in my pocket,
and these allusions to home, they found a place in me too.
i used to long for some warm insulation,
but i've grown accustomed to the cold wind blowing in my room,
singing “ooh…”
it's not a matter of strength
that pushes blood through your veins.
it's just a matter of a heart that keeps pumping it,
and that's a matter of another sort.
i used to think that one day i'd settle into some place.
i used to think i'd find the will to be content.
i settled into a dispossession of sentiment.
but that's alright.
i though again about ya eric.
i thought i might unfold your number, yeah.
i thought i'd hear your voice, i might hear it.
i thought about the pain i might put you through.
i thought again about ya eric.