LIVE GALLERY: Witch Fever, Knives & City Dog at Oslo, London
I hear my name being called – throw a handful of salt over my shoulder.
I hear my name being called – throw a handful of salt over my shoulder.
Well, whatever it was, I’ll live without it.
I spent this year as a ghost and I’m not sure what I’m looking for, a voice on a phone that you rarely answer anymore.
You are my song, and you are where I want to be.
Do you prefer Ashley or Mary Kate?
When I check in, it’s like I’m feeling for a pulse.
We’re at the crest of the shit-wave, baby.
Every time I try to speak, I just crumble underneath.
Sorry is easy to say, harder to mean, and even harder to prove.