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Sometimes I get the feeling that this really never was my home |
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A 1957 kind of heaven sent remote control |
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A boring bird a bitter word a re-recurring picture show |
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We watch together tracking weather barely tethered from below |
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We hover high an open eye to always see just where we are |
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The subdivisions subdividing and colliding bare their scars |
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A washing dish a ripping stitch nothing is missing no one's far |
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Wind up cloud wind up sky |
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Sees the rain turn to snow |
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Sees the rain turn to snow again |
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There is no more to know here |
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There is nothing more to know here |
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Our wings are urgently diverging feeling set upon the sun |
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Our welded skeletons are relatively ready to be gone |
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The cities merge the lights converge the buzzing blurs into a single sigh |
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Wind up cloud wind up sky |
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Sees the rain turn to snow |
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Sees the rain turn to snow again |
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There is no more to know here |
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There is nothing more to know here |
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See the satellite, See the satellite, |
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See the satellite, See the satellite seceding |
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See the satellite, See the satellite, |
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See the satellite, See the satellite seceding |
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Here in the headlights, Here in the headlights |
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Here in the headlights, Here in the headlights |
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At a haunted height, At a haunted height |
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At a haunted height, At a haunted height |
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We roll our eyes back up into our heads |
