Your heart is always almost beating   along with windy frozen tunes.      But you say you've laughed enough,   your closet's stuffed with last year's blues.   But you know by summertime your suicide's just last year's news.      What will we find inside of your room?   Notes in the margins,    records always spinning.   Clues you know you want all to know   your little soul grew old too soon   and surprises lost their thrill.