Time passes. Even when it seems impossible. Even when each tick of the second hand aches like the pulse of blood behind a bruise. It passes unevenly, in strange lurches and dragging lulls, but pass it does.
Don’t say I’m better off dead, ‘Cause heaven’s full and hell won’t have me. Won’t you make some room in your bed? Oh, well you could lock me up in your heart, And throw away the key. Won’t you take me out of my head?