*BREADCRUMBS by Mike Shinoda

South Still Speaking

I Can't Wait

Horizons/West

Gnash

The Dark Glow

Holding On

Blackout

Ash Speck in a Green Eye

If Not Winter

Breathe onto me

White Horses

milk of the madonna

God Does Like Ugly

YouUgly

Key Entity Extraction VII - Yuko The Trivial

The Father of Make Believe

Key Entity Extraction VIII - Peter The Wishing

I'm the crack in the mirror
The shadow on the wall
The ghost in the machine
The echo in the hall
I’m the friction
The fiction
The itch you can’t scratch
Tear it all apart
There’s no perfect match

Disharmonious

Produced by Mark Xenophontos 

Lyrics by Mark Xenophontos 

------------------------

Your suitcase by the door again, another Thursday flight
Cash folded by the bedside, boarding pass held tight
Your phone lights up—three names you won't remember
While he's asking the babysitter if you're coming home in December

You're hunting something nameless in a stranger's bed
He's drawing stick figures with two heads

You're building kingdoms out of breaking glass
Trading years for temporary heat
The deadbolt turns, the seasons pass

And small hands stop reaching when you leave
Small hands stop reaching when you leave

Watching from the corner booth, untethered and alive
You tell yourself that freedom means you don't apologize
But something flickers when a child's voice cuts the noise
The way you grip your glass destroys your poise

You're teaching him that staying isn't what the worthy do
He's learning love looks just like walking through

You're building kingdoms out of breaking glass
Trading years for temporary heat
The deadbolt turns, the seasons pass

And small hands stop reaching when you leave
Small hands stop reaching when you leave

His height marks on the wall you'll never see
Your suitcase wheels have worn a groove into the floor
The key you threw away has rusted through
Every lock you own is haunted now by you

Scrape the ink, destroy the costume clean
Let him see the person, not the scene
The deadbolt's just a choice you make tonight
There's still a door, there's still a light

But small hands stop reaching when you leave
Small hands stop reaching...

You won't take it off, the mirror knows
Another crowd, another pose
His small hand reaching through the empty air
Learning early that you were never really there

Small Hands

Edge Of Yesterday

New album 'Horizons/West’ out now on Epitaph Records https://thrice.ffm.to/horizonswest

Gnash

Thrice

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