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Orange Skies over West Gate traffic flow Turns the bay to folded sheets of copper down below Buildings turn from factories to magic lights that glow And I'm taking on a darkness of my own Windshield of dead flies, no longer free to roam Heading out of the roadhouse from one more ever-ringing phone Movement can make you weary, rushing with the engine's moan And I'm taking on a feeling she's not in there alone Night air is wheezing through the jeans and her nightgown Two bodies won't be freezing where candlelight has them bound Windowless breaking is sometimes the sweetest sound And I'm taking on a feeling of running 'till they cut me down 'Till they cut me down From Letras Mania