Texty: Bright Eyes. On My Way To Work.

:
There is a car parked where the block begins,
and there are people singing praises,
say it's all because of him.
And there is a bird perched on a frayed wet wire,
and his voice sings out for a lover,
but it's covered by the choir of voices reaching way beyond the rafters.
With devotion they perform these sacred tasks,
they cross themselves and offer up their checkbooks.
Slight suffering is not too much to ask.
Besides we all are making money,
and we are all fucking alone,
and we don't know what we're doing,
maybe just buying us some hope.
Because we know that we are lonely,
yeah, lonely that's for sure and the older ones are coughing,
and the older ones are dying.
Maybe we are all dying.

I pass a graveyard on my way to work,
today I saw two dozen white roses on a fresh new mound of dirt.
And I wondered about the occupant,
when the darkness finally swallowed him,
was he calm and content?
Or was he sweating in a struggle to keep breathing,
ripping apart the sheets that dressed his bed,
crying out loud for someone to help him and collapsing on his back all pale and dead?

Maybe it's me who's this unstable,
always obsessed about the end.
Why can't I let what happens happen,
and just enjoy the time I spend?
Oh how I wish it was so easy,
but when there is no point to anything,
you know it can get a bit confusing.
Why is that I keep going? Why is that we keep going?