Lyrics

[Verse 1]
Boots by the door.
Suitcase by the stairs.
He’d said, “A little rustic life might settle all these cares.”
He’d said, “I need the stillness. I want to breathe the pine.”
He'd said, "It'll be like therapy."
The forest had other designs.
[Verse 2]
The silence—it wasn’t silence.
It hummed.
With a hundred unseen mouths chewing air through the boards.
He lay stiff in bed—
Under three quilts—
Counting the way the house breathed back at him.
Not if it creaked,
but what it meant.
[Pre-Chorus]
Had he locked the door?
Was it even a real door?
Could a door stop teeth?
Could blankets stop dragging?
Could his breath be heard from out there?
[Chorus]
This was not a vacation.
This was not quaint.
This was an unwritten story in a house with no saints.
He felt time collapse into loops made of fear—
Each second repeating with monsters near.
He wanted to run, but the dark had no gate—
And outside, the trees were just waiting to wait.
He was unmaking, unthreading by name—
Until the bacon came.
[Verse 3]
He saw his thoughts.
Felt them in his mouth like gravel—
Words collapsing mid-sentence, mid-memory.
Who was he?
Where was the city?
What is a city but a trick?
A place where noise keeps you from knowing you’re already gone?
[Bridge]
He curled tight.
Beneath the covers like an animal trying to remember the shape of safety.
What was that?
A hoof?
A claw?
His heartbeat was louder than reason.
His mind told him stories that wouldn’t end, only multiply—
Each one darker than the last.
Each one more likely.
[Chorus]
This was not peace.
This was not rest.
This was the old gods whispering, “We’ve never left.”
This was a mirror made of leaves and teeth—
Reflecting what hides when you go too deep.
And he knew in his bones, this wasn’t a game—
Until the bacon came.
[Verse 4]
It slid under the door like absolution.
Salt and fat.
The real.
The known.
It broke the spell with smoke and sizzle.
It said:
You’ve lived through it. You just didn’t know you could.
[Outro – Quiet, Almost Whispered]
He rose.
Unshaven.
Eyes wide like truth.
And sat at the table, empty as proof.
He chewed without speaking.
He drank what was poured.
And all that was left of the man who had arrived—
Lay folded in a napkin, beside the fork.