It's ours. Songs lose their meaning. Where we live doesn't feel the same when we ask and get no answer, so we question our right to peace. And I'm sleeping in strange towns hundreds of miles from a familiar coast. Landlocked and fed up. These open spaces feel like sets of chains. I know what it's like for hopelessness to feel the same. Every miscommunication. Every choice that we question. Every tainted memory. It's our, it's our validation. I'll find joy in suffering. My weaknesses have come to set me free. Set me free. Peace comes to those who cannot reach it. Rest comes to those who cannot see it. It's ours.