Vārdi: Thursday. Tomorrow I'll Be You.

in the circuit, the frequency's breaking up.
the speakers can barely move
this is not a test
tune to the broadcast.
witness the jetlag.
look in the mirror.
adjust the V-hold.
shatter the lens.
pull out the shards.
choke on her words,
caught in your throat.

how long can the wheels maintain a spin,
at this velocity?

on every block,
a reminder:
you can't stop this intersection.
at every turn,
dead forests of tenements rise
like antennas.

the miles are adding up
and the days are counting down.
cut the jet black from my hair
before we're bathed in the dawn

of New Year's Day.
I will change back to myself
in the flame,
we burn like the paper hearts of
dead presidents.
we're too lost,
to lose hope.
maybe the night seems so dark
because the day
is much too bright
for us to see that we are cured.
we are cured
(shatter the lens. pull out the shards)
we are cured.
we are cured
(choke on her words, caught in your throat)

that's the sound of music from another room
the piano player hangs from piano wire
but the player piano carries on.

sit back and tune to the broadcast.
witness the jet lag
shatter the lens.
pull out the shards.
choke on her words,
caught in your throat.
this is not a test
this is not a test
shatter the lens.
pull out the shards.
choke on her words,
caught in your throat.

as the language dissolves
and the sentence lifts,
a slow alphabet of rain is whispering,
"aabcttipacbdefg..."
since I replaced the I in live with an O,
I can't remember who you are...

...but tomorrow I'll be you.
just pick up the phone.

I'm calling from your house,
in your room,
in your name,
lying in your bed,
following your dreams.
I listen to your voice
get caught in my throat
as I sing,
"This Is Just A Dream."
on New Year's Day,
we will change back to ourselves.
in the flame
we are cured.
we are cured.
we are cured.