[Verse] Long dark table, scarred like a feast, heavy bowls, cabbage and bone. Silver on earthenware, tap and scrape, Manhattan glittering beyond the stone. Three good thefts, one damn flood, a bishop with opinions on harebell blood. Someone says, "That's not how it went." Stone teeth show. The story doesn't bend. [Chorus] Tell it your way. Tell it wrong. Some stories get better the longer they're gone. Glass at the window. Stone at the door. Quick money rising twenty floors. We're not chasing where the book has been. We're following the hands that wouldn't let it end. [Verse] Aurelia writes. Chris leans near. Spoons keep time to five hundred years. Under the table Hünga dreams. Above us New York counts and gleams. Sandstone. Glass. Appetite. Gold. Some things are bought. Some things are only held. [Break – stripped back, spoon-like percussion and low guitar] The bowl is empty. The story stops. One silver spoon— drops. [Silence] "Right then." [Final Chorus] No more following where it has been. Follow the hands that wouldn't let it end. Outside, Manhattan keeps wanting more. Inside— New York has become a door. [Outro – low, dry] Who's opening it?
