The evening sings in a voice of amber, the dawn is surely coming.

She doesn't give you time for questions as she locks up your arms in hers. And you follow till your sense of direction completely disappears.

The evening sings in a voice of amber, the dawn is surely coming.

We measure our days out in steps of uncertainty not turning to see how far we've come. And peer down the highway from here to eternity and reach out for love on the run.

Nothing that's forced can ever be right, if it doesn't come naturally, leave it.

Whoever you pretend to be, you must face yourself eventually.

The literati in their cellarsPerform semantic tarantellas.I wish I did it half as well as them.