Hey...your call was so cryptic that I came across town to see if you're okay. I saw your home decorated for Hallowe'en, and you had made a grave…your name etched on a Styrofoam stone. Then I walked in on you passed out, alone. I caught a glimpse of your face in the mirror on the floor; it was strange. So tell me, who are you? And who were you last time? And when will you clarify yourself…? Umbrella skeletons over your head. Bare ocean beneath you now. The sky's splitting, and scolding every inch of your skin. And you fold at the slightest sound. I can barely reach you now. Yeah, you're flailing, just sailing in the skinniest winds. I've seen photos of you as a kid. Bursting with rancorous id; raging, unfocused through the mobile home where you lived. And now, you're at once at one with those times…yet somehow just barely alive. And I'll never get used to that new hardened look in your eyes. Chorus. You said, "The cemetery's winning, so that's reason for quitting. The dead will push the living to higher highrises." You planned your journey not worried what you did to yourself. But then the initial thrills were shoddy. They vacated your body. You needed something heartier to keep yourself high, so now I'm diving to revive your venomous shell.