From day one I talked about getting out,
but not forgetting about how my worse fears are letting out, Patrick.
When I was a little boy, my dad used to ask "why put a new address on the same old loneliness?"
When breathing just passes the time, Patrick, until we all just get old and die.
Now talking's just a waste of breathe and living's just a waste of death.
But, honey, it's not you.
It's me.
Actually, it's the taxidermy of you and me.
Untie the balloons from around neck, and ground me. Patrick, help me.
I'm just the moon, and you're just the sun. I'd fade into the dark and you'd always shine.
I'm just a racehorse on the track, send me back to the glue factory.
Always though I'd float away and never come back.
But now I've got enough miles on my card to fly our boys and Hayley home on my own, Young Bloods and Soul Punks alike.
But you know me, Patty;
I like being alone.
And keeping you all alone, and the charts are boring and our kids are snoring.
And my ego's been in a sling.
And you said you weren't fucking listening, and I said I'm wishing, Patrick, I said...I said...
This is you and me and me and you, until we've got nothing left.
