Shortened stones
And weathered broken glass
I'll never trace their path
The reason for their form
It's like the hairless brush
Or the broken little things
In the kitchen drawer
Full of forgotten memories
That are gonna be gone
Like the people who made them
And the people who broke them
And the people who found them
And the people who put them in drawers
Or the children who let them out
With the pottery
And the bones and skulls of birds
Lyrics provided by LRCLIB
