A thousand nights asking what the fuck the point was.
A million more asking what the point of *me* was.
Maybe I spent my whole life looking for a compass
when you were just teaching me how to walk without one.
So... wherever you are—
turn the record up.
I spent a thousand nights in philosophical combat,
Trying to crack life's code with a brain full of syntax,
Then a million more asking what my own task was,
Like existence owes receipts for the shit that it charged us.
Candy-coated truths with an acid-tab aftertaste,
Metaphors doing laps like bicycles around the plaza,
Leashes, pets, straps—every symbol got tangled,
While the dogs in my head kept chasing their own tails.
I made a home in hypotheticals, furnished it with doubt,
Put a question on the door, never figured how to get out,
If God is a plumber, then the whole world's a rough draft,
He fixes every leak by putting another leak past that.
Patching porcelain problems with a porcelain solution,
Calling cosmetic damage "necessary reconstruction,"
Taking tiles from the bathroom just to cover up the ceiling—
That's not divine intervention, that's a landlord with a meaning.
And if heaven's got a toolbox, tell me why the pipes burst?
Why the good ones disappear while the worst ones rehearse?
Maybe faith isn't answers, maybe faith is the nerve
To keep building when the blueprint was never preserved.
I hope there's a place where the good ones don't go,
Where the questions run deep but the answers move slow,
I'll bring every record, every word left unsaid,
You bring that sky in your eyes and we'll start again.
I hope there's a place where the good ones don't go,
Where the questions run deep but the answers move slow,
If I'm lost on the way, let the old wheels roll—
I'll follow that bicycle home, wherever you go.
Now every blank page got your fingerprints on it,
I open up the notebook, there's your grin in the margins,
You'd ay what everybody thought but nobody wanted,
Turn uncomfortable silence into something important.
You had a talent for excavating the unsaid,
Pulling truth from the basement and putting it on the desk,
Now I'm staring at the ceiling, negotiating with death,
Like "give me five minutes, I got something I should've said."
I wanna detonate the bathroom, let the fixtures scatter,
Turn the porcelain to fossils, let the forest climb backwards,
Build a cabin from the rubble where the plumbing don't matter,
Where the tiles become the terrain and the trees become the rafters.
No more walls, no stalls, no need to compartmentalize,
No more hiding human shit behind a porcelain disguise,
Just dirt underneath our feet and an infinite sky,
And you rolling up slowly with the whole universe in your eyes.
Beach cruiser turning, sweater from the nineties,
Looking like the cosmos personally designed me
A reminder that the ordinary can border on divine—
Sometimes God wears old clothes and arrives right on time.
So I talk to the absence, let the silence respond,
Try to chart my direction when the metaphysical's gone,
No north on the compass, just a pulse and a bond,
Trying to live with the weight of the people I've lost.
And I don't need another theory explaining existence,
I need somebody good enough to make the world feel different,
'Cause the measure of a life isn't years in attendance—
It's the lives that keep moving when you're no longer in them.
Maybe that's the purpose—
not finding the answer,
but becoming an answer
for somebody else.
Maybe every lesson you left
was a seed I was too young to recognize,
and grief is just the garden
where I finally learned its name.
I hope there's a place where the good ones don't go,
Where the questions run deep but the answers move slow,
I'll bring every record, every word left unsaid,
You bring that sky in your eyes and we'll start again.
I hope there's a place where the good ones don't go,
Where the questions run deep but the answers move slow,
If I'm lost on the way, let the old wheels roll—
I'll follow that bicycle home, wherever you go.
Forgive me for the silences—
the lessons I heard but didn't understand,
the things I thought I had time to say.
Or maybe I don't need your forgiveness.
Maybe I need my own.
Because you taught me perfection wasn't permanence.
It was presence.
So here's to you, padre.
Skøl.
To the sky-colored eyes.
To the songs from the sixties.
To every impossible conversation.
To doing the best with whatever time we're given.
The bathroom's fucked.
The pipes are leaking.
The tiles are falling.
Build the cabin anyway.
