Over the course of a life you collect things. Some things you get rid of, but some of it you keep, even if you're not sure why. Time elapses, and then you look at the shelf, or in a drawer, or between the pages of a book, and there you find the ephemera of a life that seems like somebody else's. Sometimes you feel nothing and move on. Sometimes you're transported someplace wonderful. Sometimes you're transported someplace you don't want to visit anymore. This is a song about objects of power, and how they can catch you off guard even when they frequently go unnoticed in your line of sight. This is a song about alternately accepting or rejecting the power of objects. This is a song about layers of experience, and how easily they peel away and cover up again.
lyrics
I got memorabilia
Souvenirs from a dozen different lives
They look out from their places
They're a quiet lot 'til they catch my eye
And heart in my throat or soaring up high
It depends on the day
It depends
Hands covered in ashes
Getting in my eyes when I touch my face
Like a ghost from the movies
Hands out and howling all over the place
If the echo's the only lingering trace
That depends on the day
Threadbare on a Monday morning
Put away that used up junk
Or put it in a place of privilege
It depends on the day
It depends on the day
It depends
I got marginalia
In between the words and vying for room
And the thoughts were all fleeting
But I snatched them lest they scattered too soon
And it's dark between pages, yeah it's dimmer than doom
But it depends on the day
Threadbare on a Monday morning
Put away that used up junk
Or put it in a place of privilege
It depends on the day
It depends on the day
It depends