These soft white pages
will be blistered and burned
and by these fingers they will be turned
write it in ink
under the amber light
empty pages, black on white
electrical conversation
there is no separation
I can almost feel you next to me
can you hear me, hear me calling
from a million miles away?
can you hear me, hear me calling
from a million miles away?
electric lines and operators
a signal and translator
until later, until later
these tall brown buildings
between the mazes and turns
beat-box whispers and vagrants yearn
the child has met the City
but the CIty did not know
deep within its bowels slept a young, young soul
a disco and a D.J.
a barmaid and a replay
(I) hide behind these closed eyes
I can almost hear you sing to me...
