[Intro, quiet room tone, something set down and left alone, unhurried] the notebook is still on the shelf open to a page from March [Verse 1, close and conversational, recounting without defending] I bought the shoes with a plan attached went out for eleven mornings and then I didn't they are by the door where they have always been and I step over them without deciding anything for a while I called it discipline and when it stopped I called it something worse I have carried that second word around longer than I ever carried the running [Verse 2, same restraint, the memory turning out to be intact] but the mornings I did go are still in me somewhere the empty street, the cold on my face the surprise of being awake before the day none of that got undone when I stopped it did what it came to do and then it was finished [Bridge, instruments thin out, harmonium and room tone only, one held breath] maybe it was never a failure maybe it was a season things end without anybody having done anything wrong [Chorus, warm and wide, opening gently, never lifting into volume] so let me put it down gently not thrown out, not kept as evidence just set on the shelf with the page still open [Outro, gentle resolution, the light settling, full stop ending] I am not behind on anything no one is keeping the tally and the notebook can stay open without asking me for the next line
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