Bonaduces Days Between The Stations
Hey I guess that you're asleep, but let me tell you about
my dream. In it, we're somewhere in Alaska, and sunlight
settles like a stain onto the world's slowest train to
mark its slackened passage. But we leave our cameras in
our backpacks until our hospital haircuts grow back in.
And in the days between the stations, we are drowning in
sobriety. And all the weight of isolation has lost its
grip and tumbled off of me. After months in a state of
isolation, you find your place in these one-way
conversations as we ride for days between the stations.
The staff comes in to provide all the food we've been
denied, while I survey others seated. And as their faces
start to creep into the democracy of sleep, we learn to
treasure waiting. And we zip our sleeping bags together.
You rest your bad arm across my knees. Chorus. And I'll
keep looking at the time; the sun is never setting now.
I'll stop looking for something to drag us down. Chorus.
