By Benjamin Bryant and Francis McGrath
If you need me, I’ll be at the station
Time to move on and time to take a pause
Someday I’ll have all I wanted
I only wish I knew what it was
Being alone is not oneness
Feeling nothing is just numbness
Too late, too much to suffer
Forty days, forty nights for prayer
To seek the things that we’re meant for
To learn the things we should say
Review, erase, rewrite
Change the station
Changing stations
Desert winds blew me in strange directions
I’ve played against the house but never won
Past the city is a wasteland
Cracks are revealed when lit by the sun
Drinking too much makes you thirst
Losers, at times, come in first
Too late, too much to suffer
Forty days, forty nights for prayer
To seek the things that we’re meant for
To learn the things we should say
Review, erase, rewrite
Change the station
Changing stations
We’re spinning, spinning, spinning: a storm in the sand
We’re drifting, drifting, drifting: beyond all their plans
We’re kissing, kissing, kissing: the lips of the past
We’re driving, driving, driving: the edge of a map
Too late, too much to suffer
Forty days, forty nights for prayer
To seek the things that we’re meant for
To learn the things we should say
Review, erase, rewrite
Change the station
Changing stations