Just guitar at the jump—bright, fast, close, dry wood and wire.

Voice is already inside that motion: two-headed boy.

Floating in glass—the room stays tiny while the strum keeps scraping.

Sun gone, blacker than black; the guitar doesn't ease for any of it.

He can hear the tap on the jar—the line leans across those quick attacks.

Listening to hear where you are—same bare machine, voice stretched into a vow.

He says it again. No drums, no thickening—just the hold getting tighter.

Title back. The address resets without changing the floor.

Sunday shoes, dance round the room to accordion keys—and still only this guitar doing the band's job.

Needle that sings in your heart, signals in the dark—the dance never leaves the jar.

Signals again; the strum is still the whole apparatus.

We will take off our clothes—voice opens wider over that narrow grid.

Fingers through the notches in your spine. The guitar stays regular, almost clinical.

When all is breaking, everything you could keep inside—no arrangement relief, just more strain in the line.

Eyes ain't moving—they just lay there in their climb.

Two-headed boy again. Same small materials carrying the next load.

Pulleys and weights, a radio played just for two—the private machinery shows up in the words while the hand keeps the same quick job.

Parlor light, moon across a face—the harmony shifts a little, enough to keep the ground alive.

Silver speakers that sparkle all day, then the long line: lover floating and choking with hands across her face.

Exposure back in the dark. You already know this machinery, so the same clothes-and-spine turn lands heavier.

Notches in the spine again—guitar not louder, just more consequential from lasting this long.

Breaking and keep-inside compressed into one longer push.

Eyes ain't moving now—phrasing stretches tired against the pulse.

Last title return. Colder comfort coming in on the same fast floor.

No reason to grieve—the world you need wrapped in gold silver sleeves, left under Christmas trees in the snow.

Preservation, not rescue. The guitar keeps carrying the image by hand.

I will take you and leave you alone—still that quick insistence under the softer words.

Spirals of white softly flow over your eyelids—the lyric slows; the hand on the guitar does not.

That mismatch is the ending: surface softens, pulse stays hard.

Waiting until you let go—and the track keeps moving past the thought.

After the cut, guitar alone; then it finally breaks off. First real space outside the glass.