Zoë Emery - Hypnagogia Lyrics

I swear I must have swallowed the Atlantic
Because my lungs drown in brine every time that I panic
And the only way to reach any state of calm
Is to submit to the malevolent maelstrom
And let her purge her salty wrath down my swollen cheeks
And whisper to me sweetly that I'll never know peace
Wish my father and I could go swimming in the clouds painted on my ceiling
Maybe then he'd see why my head's stuck up there
Although I know at this point it's too late to care
Alone
I'll never learn how roses make wine the color of potted octopus ink
And peacock feathers float in candle wax
Melted over wax paper
Woven into waxy skin
And skinny wax figures
In a wax museum
During a waxing crescent moon
That will wane all too soon
I've got a history of being histrionic
My mind is morphing into myriad moronic
But mellifluous melodies that lull me to sleep
Just long enough for the reaper to weep
Because he knows my soul is not his to keep
For I control death
I control destiny
Though I know that notion is absolutely
Absurd, said the bird to the wriggling worm
Whose squiggly body writhes and squirms
Like slithy toves that gyre and gimble in the wabe
While I place a silver thimble
On every finger to keep me nimble
And numb to the sensory stimuli
That deafen my ears and dull my eyes
And burn my tongue and dumb my mind
And split my skin to peer inside
But look
There's nothing there to find

I swear I must have swallowed the Atlantic
Because my lungs drown in brine every time that I panic
And the only way to reach any state of calm
Is to submit to the malevolent maelstrom
And let her purge her salty wrath down my swollen cheeks
And whisper to me sweetly that I'll never know peace
Wish my father and I could go swimming in the clouds painted on my ceiling
Maybe then he'd see why my head's stuck up there
Although I know at this point it's too late to care
Alone
I'll never learn how roses make wine the color of potted octopus ink
And peacock feathers float in candle wax
Melted over wax paper
Woven into waxy skin
And skinny wax figures
In a wax museum
During a waxing crescent moon
That will wane all too soon
I've got a history of being histrionic
My mind is morphing into myriad moronic
But mellifluous melodies that lull me to sleep
Just long enough for the reaper to weep
Because he knows my soul is not his to keep
For I control death
I control destiny
Though I know that notion is absolutely
Absurd, said the bird to the wriggling worm
Whose squiggly body writhes and squirms
Like slithy toves that gyre and gimble in the wabe
While I place a silver thimble
On every finger to keep me nimble
And numb to the sensory stimuli
That deafen my ears and dull my eyes
And burn my tongue and dumb my mind
And split my skin to peer inside
But look
There's nothing there to find