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Inyourblueroomsitwithacandlelit
Onacharcoalbedofdreamsyoucarryon
Thoughthestreetsarehotyoucanstillalot
Butyoucanwalkoutandforgetthereisn'ttimetotakealoan
Butyou'renowintosomethingthatyouwereimmunetobefore
Andtherewasn'tasignyoujustfellintolineatthedoor
Andthequestionsandsinthepalmsofhands
Ofthewretchespickingpiecesoftheirmindsupoffthefloor
Onthemantelplacethereisstillatrace
Oftheplasticfaceyouhungyourmomentson
Andthesuddenscareofalandingthereonthesea
Thatyoudon'tcaretoevenseewhenyou'realone
Butthedayistooshortandyoucan'tfindsupportinthesun
Youhadthoughtyou'ddecidetojuststickouttherideasitcomes
Buttheemptinessofathingthat'slessthanwhatitwasthoughttobe
Hasleftyouwonderingjusthowmuchmore
