[Intro] (Bowed bass, low and steady. The sound of wood under tension.) [Verse 1] The water has a brown horizon. It leaves a line across the wall. Below the mark, the paper curls. The silt is drying into plates. It fills the cracks between the boards until the floor is a single sheet. The name on the envelope is a grey smudge. [Pre-Chorus] The hinge is orange with rust. The clock has stopped. The glass is lying on its side. [Chorus] It is a grey geography. The light dies halfway across the floor. The walls are the same distance apart. The weight is in the joists now. No reach. No grip. The measurement of the room is the measurement of the silt. [Verse 2] The chair leans toward the corner. One leg has found the soft spot. The seat still holds the shape of the load. A fine dust rises from the mud. It settles on the table. It settles on the glass. The air is thick with the bottom. The house is a channel. [Bridge] The wood is soft. The wood is heavy. One, two, three, four. The door is sealed to the frame. Something small is in the fracture. It does not read the waterline. It does not wait for the tide. It presses its body against the break. [Outro] High tide. Ebb. Ground instead.
