Mary of the Angels
de Willard Grant Conspiracy
I'm wired awake
In the dark
I can see my breath
Cloud the room
It's the kind of cold
That heat won't cure
And it comes from deep inside of you
We're naked undercover
In a tiny railroad shack
Next to a line the trains don't run on
Any longer
A bus rolls by
The building shakes
I'm awake and wondering
When I slipped
And hit my head
And fell into your bed
It's a mystery to me
Why you think that I should stay
I'll call you tomorrow night in New York City
And we'll both try to think of something
To say
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