it s a young friday night and i m filled up to the brim with an old old feeling that can t be turned into words but maybe a letter of resignation if you frame it i left it burning on your wall she asks you what s wrong you say nothing it s nothing baby what s wrong it s nothing it s nothing it s nothing at all it s just the pressure with which you hold her it s really nothing at all it s just some dandruff on her shoulder it s just that every moment casts a shadow a sadness of it s not being something else other than itself she asks you what s wrong you say nothing it s nothing baby what s wrong you say nothing it s nothing it s nothing it s nothing it s nothing you say nothing it s nothing you say nothing it s nothing