This time, the house isn't yellow, in fact the wood isn't painted. Early in the morning, very little light penetrates the branches, throwing soft shapes on the floor. No matter how convincing and comforting you may sound, Ed, the truth is there in the title: Two Weeks. And that's all we have. Until next year.
What I love about this song, though, is that, despite being a heterosexual male, from the very first second I feel like Ed Droste is my lover, and I love him more for trying to reassure me, even though we both know there's no point. If I feel lazy, I can just sink into his voice.
(live on Letterman, studio version on the forthcoming Veckatimest)