Starve a fever if it'll make you feel pure

On your way out leave a mark on the door

Watch the rain make lace in the headlights

They swing away and leave you the night

Sound from an open door, sideways glance at a packed dance floor

Only skin only sweat, pounding out consolation's test

You make the rules, you make them up as you go

Private rites that only you know

Benedictions on the passing trains

High priesthood of one, you sing your own refrains

Light from an open door, sideways glance at an empty floor

One girl talks, the other laughs

Counting ones consolation's task