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I'm buckle in my seat belt, plug my headset in a chair |
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And to the music, I watch flight attendants move |
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They are pointing out the exits, but it looks more like a prayer |
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Or an ancient dance their bloodline reaches through |
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These planes are built for sifting through the warriors from the men |
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I've got time to sit and watch them for a while |
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You can see everywhere they're going, everywhere they've been |
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And how they look out at the clouds each time they smile |
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And I think, maybe he's in town for someone's birthday |
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Maybe he makes trouble everywhere |
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But as much he resists the conversation between the rivers and the freeways |
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He knows it's always there |
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As the northwest passage sits somewhere below me as I sleep |
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I dream of captains and explorers eating boots |
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When I ask if I can join them and they offer one to me |
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I wake up as my home comes into view |
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So I reach out down for my notebook to see what impressions could be spun |
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But it's just buildings and a million swimming pools |
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So I leaf back through the pages to see where I am from |
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Or for some crumbling map of what it's leading to |
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And I find that the hero in this song that I am writing |
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Doesn't know he's just an image of myself |
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But as much he resists the conversation between the rivers and the freeways |
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He's somehow always asking them for help |
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I want to make out all the signs I've been ignoring |
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How the trees reach for the sky or in the length of someone's hair |
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'Cause when you don't know where you are going |
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Any road will take you there |
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So maybe I'm in town for someone's birthday |
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Maybe I make trouble everywhere |
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But as much I resist the conversation between the rivers and the freeways |
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I know it's always there |
