A photo of a friend, I've probably forgottenAn apple I pretend, is ripe instead of rottenA shirt I never wear, and haven't fit for agesA ketchum that I swear, is missing seven pagesWhy do I hate to let them go?Why does imagining it sting?When in my head I know, I knowAll they are is thingsAll they are is thingsA letter that I mailed, well at least I meant toA tape of nine inch nails, I probably should have sent toA car that kind of runs, unless it's on an inclineWe had ourselves some fun, for twenty years it's been mineWhy do I hate to let them go?Why does imagining it sting?When in my head I know, I knowAll they are is thingsAll they are is thingsI guess I'd like to see, them dusty on a shelfBecause to set them free, would be to lose myself*