This song is a peak into the lyfe of a fictional citizen caught in a war torn city, and their struggle to cope with the daily fear of stray bullets, residential bombing raids, violence and death.

[Have someone read this to you while your eyes are closed.]

I want you to imagine that you are on the sixth floor of a once peaceful apartment building in the city center. You moved there after college to work as an IT consultant for a well-known firm. It was a happy, exciting move. And an unbelievable opportunity. After all the work and years of schooling it took for you to land this job, you finally felt hope for the future.

But then war came.

Now the constant shelling of the city, the looting, the pipe bombs and the troopers marching through the streets, have turned this once joyous avenue you live on into a battleground. Explosions can be heard near and far in a never-ending fury. The ground shakes like it's angry. Fire and flak permeate the night sky and smoke wafts through the city creating a noxious smog.

The utilities don't work. No water. No power. You filled every container you had with water before the utilities were cut, but most are empty. There is a bucket in the corner of the living room to shit in now that toilet is full. You haven't had a good night's sleep for weeks, and your once tight clothes hang like drapes on your body.

Mara, your friend downstairs, was gang-raped and beaten by soldiers. Her partner, Thom, was murdered for trying to stop them. Other people in your building have died from mortars, stray bullets and dysentery. The remaining tenants huddle in the interior rooms of their apartments away from the smashed out windows and pray for it to end before they too become another unknown body lying in the street or a soldier's play toy.

Unarmed and trapped, you are a refugee—collateral damage.

There’s a TV hooked up to an inverted car battery barking in the hall—your only source of information from the outside. In news reports, outsiders call your people illegal immigrants and terrorists because of your skin color and nationality.

Aid is not coming.

You keep thinking about Robbie’s idea of joining some of the other tenants and making a mad dash for the sea. Then paddling a raft across its dangerous swells. One in three rafts has reportedly capsized in the rough, icy waters. No known survivors. But one in three sounds like pretty good odds to you right now.

It is 11:08 AM, and you are standing at the kitchen counter staring at two jars of peanut butter. You opened a second one by mistake. You don't remember opening the first.

And you say to yourself, ‘This is all I have to eat. I don't wanna go outside. I don't want to die.’