It's a young Friday night And I'm filled up to the brim With an old, old feeling That can't be turned into art Except maybe a letter Of resignation If you'd frame it And left it burning on your wall She asks you what's wrong You say nothing, it's nothing It's nothing at all It's just the pressure with which you hold her It's really nothing at all It's just some dandruff on your shoulder It's just that every moment Casts a shadow A sadness of its not being something else Other than itself She asks you what's wrong You say nothing, it's nothing It's nothing It's nothing