My sleepless nights aren't white, barely bright
Small holes in the watertight canvas
Sad rhinestones on the veil
And me, spellbound by darkness
I spend endless hours
Counting funeral sheep
That line my insomnia
And the less I sleep the more I think
And the more I think the less I forget
The vast dead end, the endless space
That stretch at the bottom of my bed
It's unheard-of, all these silences
How cosmic this boredom is
Should I turn to science?
Anesthetize the insomnia?
And then past midnight I dance
To the beat of tachycardias
And everything races and everything sways
And everything lays me out and everything escapes me
The moon's a slightly rancid fruit
Those who dream are really lucky
And the others have insomnia
Those who dream are really lucky
And the others have insomnia
Those who dream are really lucky