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Well now you’re here again by type
In keyboard light across a glowing screen
I wonder what you want to do with me

I lost the scent of your hair
My bed is stained with nights you weren’t there
When you drifted between memories

And I don’t know
What you are doing
But now I’m thinking about you
Thinking about you
I am thinking about you

Am I to blame
For disillusion?
For the slow decline of love we cured
We swore could never quite take
Never take us alive

Now I am trying to remember
If I wanted you to find me stripped
Of all my most accomplished armor

Now I am trying to remember
What I desired hated loved adored destroyed
Where did I leave the ardor?

I’m sorry now
I’m sorry I was ignorant
I am sorry I was clumsy
I’m sorry I was young

But I gave my will
To your contentment
It wasn’t
Knowing, sly, assured, mature:
Just the best I had for love

And it wasn’t enough (8x)

I’m glad you wrote
I’m glad you made a truce of us
I am glad I grew in memory
But I’m glad it wasn’t me

That felt the need
To sift the past for compliment
For some comfort in a lonely night
From the one you chose to leave

I don’t care
What you’ve been doing
I don’t care
Where you’ve been

I don’t care
About your future
It’s not my job to close the tab
It’s not my job to call you in

So if we don’t care
About their futures why are we
Holding to their numbers
Calling up their face in pixel
Counting all the ways we’re
Past the hope that they will find us better
Than before they told us they were leaving for the
Feeling; time; the place
Unsure we’d wind our way to thinking past the logic
Of the insecure
To find that no one leaves another
Unless they think that they are worth one more

Tell ‘em:

I don’t care
I don’t care

I don’t care
About your future

It’s not my job to hold your head at night
It’s not my job to keep score

Unless you think I’m winning


from Future​/​Can't It Be, released October 24, 2018
E.B. Madsen - music, lyrics, and vocals
Rebecca Lundy - vocals


all rights reserved



Science Book Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

The Cars and Elvis Costello had a baby. Sam Cooke was godfather. It got into computers and bought a cheap synthesizer. It drinks with Warren Zevon, and sobers up with Marshall Crenshaw. It likes to dance sometimes. Becka sings. Brett makes the sounds and writes the songs. They're both classically trained — Becka's a soprano; Brett's a composer. Science Book is their laboratory. ... more

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