Dead Spaces

I think this is definitely the best song strung out has ever played: intense but simple, awesome harmonies, good melodic bass lines, lyrics are emotionally stimulating and angry but not overdone; beautiful bridge, sick solo and the way the chorus is all melodic and catchy and then is manipulated into the epic ending that it is; awesome.
Anyhoo; This song sounds like someone who was in a bad relationship (As with many strung out songs) Someone who is a little older, or who has been through alot (These lines on my face give up the time, this blood writhing through veins is life like wine) Sounds like a couple that was together for a while, then split up (Drink to our last kiss, write a book about the mess) The chorus sounds like, after he has the house they lived in all those years, all to himself now, he's alone; and sounds like the relationship was a bit of a sham, or maybe one sided. (So now I sit alone in the dark, in the house we used to play the part)

Everything in the house, being empty and quiet as it is now, seems to leave him with regrets of how everything went down. (Empty rooms and photographs shout back in silence) The "dead spaces" seem to be the recent vacancy in the house, as even if he wasn't happy before (or didn't realize how good he had it?) he misses the presence of someone being there. (Dead spaces echo and attack, for the love of what we used to both call home) After everything was done, he kept the house they lived in he kept the house, for the love of the house not for the love of her.

Verse 2 seems straight forward, just more anger/bitterness about the situation. It seems like he was the victim in the abuse; (Wave a white flag=surrender and count me out) he clearly doesn't want to fight anymore. The end of the chorus seems odd; sounds like he never really knew what was wrong (Space between these lines that I could never quite reveal) The last line, sounds like he has nothing to live for, but suicide is just a little too far off for him (In the blink of an eye that's just too short to suffocate and kill)

The bridge is pretty straight forward; seems like he's lost a will to do anything (It's been two weeks without a sign of anyone, I left the world behind cause I don't wanna believe in love/Too broken for a text, too toxic for a stand) The second half; not 100% sure how to interpret it, but it sounds kinda straight forward.

The end chorus is more intense as if to amplify his anger and frustration. ('In silence' is the key phrase here) He's obviously tormented by the memories of everything that has happened, and seems to think everything was in vein (As the memories come rushing back...all for the love we left, in silence), just more anger/bitterness about the situation.

I’m going to go out on a limb and interpret this song a little differently. I believe the song is written from the perspective of a poetry journal, a small book that a person wrote songs or poems in. The journal belongs to someone who has died by suicide or died unexpectedly, maybe even Jim Cherry, the original bassist for Strung Out, and the journal now laments its loneliness and its inability to reveal the depth of the writer’s hopelessness. A line-by-line interpretation is below:

These lines on my face give up the time. This blood writhing through my veins is life-like wine. (‘Lines’ refer to lines of poetry. The ‘face’ is the page, which, as a diary, may include literal dates, or may just bring back memories for the journal. The ‘blood’ is the ink that runs through the pages, bringing the writer back to life through his words.)

Drink to our last kiss and write a book about the mess. A life in vulgar poetry, a testament in rhyme. (The ‘blood’ — ink — reminds the journal of their last kiss — the last time the writer wrote in him. The journal toasts this memory with the wine — also ink — from the writer’s pen. The writer’s life is put down in this messy book of vulgar poetry; the journal testifies to the writer’s existence through the rhymes that have been left behind.)

Incincerate while we can. (Ambiguous. Perhaps the journal is flashing back to their “last kiss”, the last burning, passionate moment of their relationship.)

So now I sit alone in the dark in the house we used to play the part. Empty rooms and photographs shout back in silence. (The journal looks around at the empty house that it and the writer shared together.)

Dead spaces echo an attack For the love of what we used to both call home… (‘Dead spaces’ — referring to the empty rooms of the house, the silence of the house, and the blank spaces on the page — echo back the attack, or suicide, that took away the writer, whom the journal loved and associated with home.)

“Wave a white flag and count me out.” “Recognize how sanity would feel.” (These are literal lines from the journal.) The space between these lines that I could never quite reveal. (The “space” between the lines of poetry mentioned above could be interpreted in the same way we might say, “Read between the lines.” In other words: If only someone had checked in on this person, he might still be here.) In the blink of an eye: That's just too short to suffocate and kill. (A little ambiguous. Perhaps the lines of poetry like the ones above are short and people read them quickly. Even though they’re signs that the writer needs help, the average reader wouldn’t attribute much significance to them, or at least the significance of revealing genuine suicidal thoughts.) It's been two weeks without a sign of anyone. I left the world behind cuz I don't wanna believe in love. (The journal has been alone for two weeks since the suicide. It no longer believes in love.) Anxiety of a future we cannot command too broken for the test, too toxic for a stand. (These lines could be from the journal’s mind or could be the writer’s words in the journal. Hopelessness and anxiety have made both the writer and journal unable to move on.) So I laid down and lost myself in things I could not live down. We are the wings of doves, too broke to fly, to carry on. (The pages of the book are like dove’s wings. The words on them come from a man who has broken; thus, the journal can’t fly from the things it’s trying to forget, in the same way the writer couldn’t fly from his own mind. Again, these words could be from the journal’s mind or from the writer’s written words, which is really interesting and incredibly complex.)

So now I sit alone with the dark in the house we used to play. Empty rooms and photographs in silence. As the memories come rushing back, dead spaces echo an attack. All for the love we left in silence. (The journal is alone in the empty home. The writer attacked his own life, and the resulting emptiness echoes through the pages, the air, and the home. The journal loved the writer, but its world has been left in silence.)