His morning has become the evening, it’s the start of his day.
Burned down. Torn up. Worn out. What would she say?
The sun’s not out so he wanders inside.
Can’t run on the sun, because the sun wants to hide.
It was on a Friday when she hid herself.
She just knocked a fried egg right off the shelf.
Walked ten feet in on our hands
and her feet walked far outside to find an answer.
It was on a Sunday when she hit the ground dancing.
At first glance she’s romancing the sound,
she struts across a wire only felt by her eyes
to a place high up above, just beneath the sky.
Kick and cry, I wanna hide.
I’m on the other side, by afternoon it’s night.
Your crazy is my morning.
Your crazy is my life.
She looks at me from the wire on the tile in her mind.
Says, ‘Come with me. You won’t see,
you’ll feel what you find.
It’s been in there the entire time.’
You never have to hide.
The sun wakes up outside.