it comes to you unexpected
like the phantoms you used to know.
it's the kind of pull you can't stand up to
and the kind you can't let go.
in an hour dark and quiet,
just faint buzzing of machines,
you turn and dwell the night away
just to try to say what you mean.
it's a fight for your sanity,
it doesn't matter what you call the facts.
and you can't stop a moving train,
especially when you're on the tracks.
empty lighthouse searching.
nobody's in the tower.
all the while, turning.
i'm trying to find a way back.
that's all i do, it sometimes seems.
i wake up to the garbage trucks
and the credit card companies.
went down to the bank at noon
but the loan officer, he just leered.
so i went back home and ate my lunch
which i found out was genetically engineered.
i went to be with the young folks,
i was looking for some kind of renewal.
but i can't play those kinds of video games
and i've never been very cool.
so i went back home and i laughed so hard
tears rolled from my eyes.
i then entered into the kind of sleep
that will be my ultimate demise.
empty freight train rolling.
nobody's in power.
all the while, running.
it's like trying to sum up everything,
trying to find words to end the denial,
action to end preoccupation,
and decision to end the trial.
every week in every year
in every town and in every city.
we're all just getting by
and sometimes that aint so pretty.
Copyright 2003 Jon Swift.
Recorded at Rico's Bistro and the Pink House.
Jon Swift: acoustic guitars, banjo, electric
guitars, and vocals.
Matt Rodella: bass.