Текст песни: Piano Magic. Writers Without Homes. Shot Through The Fog.

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Breaking Winter up by shooting numbers from the clock
The cat sleeps on the atlas in Alsace Lorraine, dreaming long grass and birds on the wire
I have memories no deeper than this glass and some besides that stretch history twice
In a super 8 film colour haze, a scratched nostalgia that runs through my cogs - shot through the fog; time taking care of whatever I cared about
So you are lost somewhere in here - your body, a raft,spinning towards the falls
Your death claimed me too - there were two throats in the noose but mine now swallows whiskey, mine is not now bruised
The black mouth of this month, bruised lips, black ice, forms a sickly smile across London's sky