I thought again about ya eric. I took a bus past the house i grew up in, But it's just some walls to keep the warm air in. You're just a number on a scrap in my pocket, And these allusions to home, they found a place in me too. I used to long for some warm insulation, But i've grown accustomed to the cold wind blowing in my room, Singing "ooh..." It's not a matter of strength That pushes blood through your veins. It's just a matter of a heart that keeps pumping it, And that's a matter of another sort. I used to think that one day i'd settle into some place. I used to think i'd find the will to be content. I settled into a dispossession of sentiment. But that's alright. I though again about ya eric. I thought i might unfold your number, yeah. I thought i'd about your voice, i might hear it. I thought about the pain i might put you through. I thought again about ya eric