[Intro — massed cellos alone, bowed hard and low, one grinding figure in G minor at 108 bpm; the riff lands on top of them; instrumental, no vocals] [Verse 1 — female alto, flat-spoken, guitars palm-muted and dry, cellos holding under] I left in October with a coat that wasn't mine to take. I told her I'd be back before the snow and she believed the part about back. I took the shoulder past the lot. A man in a truck asked where. I said the far side. He laughed at that and drove me forty miles. [Chorus — full band lands, twin guitars in harmony, the refrain chanted flat and hard] Two thousand and forty. Forty. That's what the green sign said. Not the ride. Not the man who wouldn't take me. Not the lot, not the sink, not the coat. Two thousand and forty. Forty. And every mile was two. [Verse 2 — heavier, bass thick and forward, drums pushing, voice with grit on it] There was a big one on the road with me. He ate standing up. He sang under his teeth wrong. He was scared of engines and of nothing else alive. At the house with the fence they took my coat, gave me a number, put me on the kitchen line. He came in through the wall to get me out. He didn't come out after. I wear the coat. It still smells like him. [Chorus — bigger, guitars wider, the chant doubled an octave down underneath] Six hundred and eight. Six hundred. That's what the green sign said. Not the fence. Not the man who prayed above us. Not the number, not the line, not the coat. Six hundred and eight. Six hundred. And every mile was two. [Bridge — everything submerged: tremolo guitar in a wall of reverb, cellos bowed hard against it, voice near-whispered and buried in the mix] The same hills. No wires on them. The same road, older. Somebody else is me over there. [Instrumental — the wall pulls back; gothic-rock lead guitar over the cello octet climbing in fifths; drums hammering, then a hard stop on one bowed chord] [Chorus — transformed: full band at maximum, voice shouted open-throated, the count no longer measuring distance] Nineteen days. Nineteen. That's what the doctor said. Not the miles. Not the one who went in front of me. Not the fence, not the sink, not the coat. Nineteen days. Nineteen. And it's inside my coat. [Outro — band cuts out; cellos alone on the grinding figure; one line, barely voiced, then a stop mid-phrase] Eleven.
