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This House is Not a Home

This song is a mysterious one that floats around the internet occasionally. The singer (and writer) is definitely Will Sheff, and it appears to be from an old solo album but why it's the only song that's survived from that album is unknown.

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Bm
Floating up to the 
A
top of the sea, 
D
sunlight and I’m 
E
sorry
Bm
Chocolate and 
A
condolences 
D
from the boy who 
E
hit me
Bm
Lying in an in
A
firmary bed 
D
in the starch and 
E
silence
Bm
Watching birds as they 
A
hit the screen, 
D
suddenly in slow 
E
motion
Floating up from being born, my throat all hot and bloody, 
watching doctors float through the room, the light is slipping quietly. 
The sheets are wrong, the bed is gone, the building is imploding. 
My other birth is hiding behind the plastic curtain. 
Arise, you think you’ve lost something, look through your many rooms. 
The cold got in in the middle of the night and cracked the bathroom mirror. 
“This house is not a home,” you say, “and I’ve got fourteen fingers.” 
The autumn holds your hand and sits behind you in an armchair. 
The butler’s face steams in the cold, the doorknob sobs behind you, 
so hold yourself, so hold yourself, with practice you’re improving. 
This world is not your own, but when you’re gone it’s going to miss you. 
This world is not your own, and all the women, as they kiss you, 
are fading fast, and when at last you exit from this old house, 
the window’s cracking casement and the pitcher’s painted clover 
will tell you all their secrets, with which they’re spilling over. 
This world is not your own, but when you’re gone it’s going to miss you. 
This world is not your own, but when you’re gone it’s going to miss you.
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tabs/this_house_is_not_a_home.txt · Last modified: 2015/01/10 12:23 (external edit)