David Sylvian

Half life
She moves in a half life
Imperfect
From her place on the stairs
Or sat in the backseat
Sometimes you're only a passenger
In the time of your life
And there's snow on the mattress
Blown in from the doorway
It would take pack mules and provisions
To get out alive
There were concerts and car crashes
There were kids she'd attended
And discreet indiscretions
For which she'd once made amends
And there's ice on the windshield
And the wipers are wasted
And the metal is flying
Between her and her friends
She'd abandoned them there
In the hills of Appalachia
She threw off the sandbags