Proximal Theory

[Verse 1]
The Star-Lite Diner's neon breathes a red histamine glow
On the fresh coat of December lake-effect snow.
She braces her ribs on the edge of the cold steel till,
A map of fine tendons, a study in standing still.
Her spine is a promise she learned how to break and reset,
A quiet withdrawal from some unspoken debt.

[Chorus]
And oh, you're the echo that rings in my marrow,
A straight and a narrow shot into tomorrow.
Are you the ghost that I'm running from, fast,
Or the future I'm practicing for in sheet glass?

[Verse 2]
A trucker wants a fill-up, she turns with a half-drawn breath,
Her voice is the texture of surviving a small death.
"Black coffee, hon," she says, like it's the only prayer she knows,
Wiping a counter where nothing beautiful grows.
The air smells of sugar and old motor oil, a blend
Of every beginning and every possible end.

[Chorus]
And oh, you're the echo that rings in my marrow,
A straight and a narrow shot into tomorrow.
Are you the ghost that I'm running from, fast,
Or the future I'm practicing for in sheet glass?

[Bridge]
(Music cuts to a single, pulsing synth note. Vocal is bone-dry, close, no reverb)
I think your name is Catherine, and you look like you're okay.
(Full wet mix with drums and phaser-drenched guitars slams back in)
Then I turn back from the window, ashamed of what I'd say.

[Outro]
The echo in my marrow...
Oh, the echo in my marrow...