Text: Dashboard Confessional. Alter the Ending. Hell on the Throat.

A line of strands to mark the trail,
No one said it would be easy.

I must admit I'd thought the risk was better waged in younger seasons, all these years in the cold play hell on the throat
Until everything I say burns like cinders,
Well it's hard to belong to a girl or a song
And the crease of a strangling winter

It's strange to be lost, stranger still to belong
On the strings of a twisting lie.
Along the way the turns are sharp,
No one said they would be easy,
I must admit I thought the trip was better made in younger seasons.
But all these years in the pursuit made a man of a fool,
Till every word I say is unwavered.


Well it's hard to belong to a girl or a psalm
In the case of a selfish believer,
It's strange to be lost, stranger still to belong
On the strings in a twisting line [x2]

And when the path I have made
From the grass to the grave,
I will love you still.
And when the sand turns to glass
And all that's left is the past
And I will love you still.