I.R.T.

[I'm pretty sure this is the first song I ever wrote. I was 16.]

living with the fireflies
feel surrounded by a million eyes
everything that grows someway dies

subway station in the early morning
drunk old man
smoking death
snoring

under the city, inside your head
it'll drive you crazy
it'll shoot you dead

grand central station, half past eight
your eyes can't tell you that it's getting late
and you smell new york's breath
from the sewer grate

down in the underground there's no night or day
no room for love
down in the subway

voice screaming from a corner of your head
if you can't shut your heart
you'd be better off dead.