I know a girl with cuts on her legs. I think that she hates the way she was made, but we never spoke of why they were there, I just squeezed them and kissed them 'til we both felt a bit better.

And now I've returned to the town where she dwells; that small lonely cabin her grandfather built, I suppose that's where she's imprisoned herself, to write all those words she's too scared to tell – those sad, short stories of a girl curled up in her shell.

Night and day she tends to the bar. She pours the drinks, they pour out their hearts. All that sorrow and alcohol weighs hard on her thoughts, so she writes them down. She loves them all.

And when we'd make love she'd stare in my eyes. I swore we had met a thousand times. Thousands of lives, thousands of nights. She'd written of it a thousand lines.

Night and day she tends to her bar. She pours me a drink for my parched heart. All my sorrow's in alcohol. She holds up the cup to my cracked lips for a kiss.