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,
vodka and pills and the 'marquee moon'.