You tried to stop the bleeding, taped a gun against your head:

It left you feeling like a medium between the living and the dead

Your face is lit by high beams, as cars pass along the road

There’s a bank beneath your eyelids where a river used to flow

Some days you’re like a martyr; some days you just get stoned

Forget the things you wanted; you’re here for what you owed

Some days you feel like Abel; some days you feel like Cain

Reclining at your table while your brother cries in pain

And when you die, you don’t know

Where the hell you will go

The train’s coming so slow

I know, I know

On some scroll, we found your letters to some god whose name we couldn’t write

Laid some leaves on down its centre, sealed it up, and rolled it tight

Lit it up behind the temple, and in the warm glow of its light

I swear my darling’s eyes resembled dark cathedrals in the night

Some days I feel like Jacob; some days I feel like Job:

Broken pottery for scraping, limps from wrestling with the Lord

Some days I pray to Jesus; some days I don’t pray for shit

Though I fumble with the pieces, some days they almost seem to fit

And when I die, I don’t know

Where the hell I will go

The train’s coming so slow

You know. You know