Based on Red by Daniel Merriweather
We don't know how you're spending all of your days knowing that love isn't here.
How is he supposed to get through this? He doesn't know. There is no one here to help him anymore.
You see the pictures, but you don't know their names, 'cause love isn't here.
He still sees them in his dreams. Or hallucinations. You don't get dreams from the amount of alcohol he's consumed. He can't even name them anymore. He doesn't recognise them through the haze of inebriation.
I can't do this by myself.
He'd like to say he hasn't touched a drink since the stuff robbed him of his life's essence. But without that which has been taken from him, he can barely live. He needs the drink. He hates it as he hates himself. Sobriety has become a foreign contaminant.
I can't be somebody else.
Those people made him who he is. They sculpted his being, helped him through the ups and downs of his life. He's not him without them.
You took something perfect and painted it red.
He looks at them every time he walks past the café. The blood stains. The marks of a revolution that could never have been. The man who fell from that window was perfect. Those blood stains will never come out.
