Host of a Ghost

If death is the end Will it be like ink running out of my pen? Indentations in pages, words crippled in stages? Or will it be like a big party where everyone is sipping tea and watching whales? But no one's last wound is healed But what if it's like, sitting at a table with someone who once cared? Though mouths are zippered, words won't even reach a whisper And you want to feel something inside But nothing ever feels quite right Spring always comes right on time But you say the weather's whatever Yeah but you say the weather's whatever So you traveled backwards Searching for answers In places where you gave in So you search coast to coast Looking like the host for someone else's ghost But not close To any sort of clue Of what you're supposed to do Radio in complete hysteria Shopping malls devouring like listeria Tell me what's more dangerous Nature or people in gathering areas? And you want to feel something inside But nothing ever feels quite right Spring always comes right on time But you say the weather's whatever Yeah but you say the weather's whatever And the city dictates life with neon lights And you fantasize what's underground And the city can take lives with neon knives And put you in the ground Take away your sound And you want to feel something inside But nothing ever feels quite right Spring always comes right on time But you say the weather's whatever Yeah but you say the weather's whatever