The days are colored, the days are colored   Painted by numbers with dirty little fingers   The trail and error, the trail and error   Put me away from this fleeting exterior      Will I leave her in the distance?   Out there hiding, where are you hiding?   As a monkey, dancing faster, eating traces of disaster      Will I wash my hands of me?   Point to yourself      The days are colored, the days are colored   Painted by numbers with dirty little fingers   The trail and error, the trail and error   Put me away from this fleeting exterior      It’s been greasepaint in canisters   It’s what I’m not that breaks me faster   Running away from the paper   The tallest tales are the letters      Will I wash my hands of me?   Point to yourself      If I bend my hands back enough   What can I pull out of my blood?   All the stories that my spirit run away from   Have they erased me?      Will I wash my hands of me?