Besedila: Far. Tin Cans With Strings To You. Sorrow's End.

I used to think, "I've never been through it,
the deaths and stuff that make us old enough."
Old enough to love a boy whose name
I still don't know. We traded voices,
blurted accidents.
Brutal Winter froze through Spring's slow crawl.

In the Summer's burn,
the impending Fall.