Oh, it must be nice to know with certainty: will being lost one day somehow be the death of me? We go out dancing every night like there's still nothing wrong. They always turn the chorus down; you can sing along, while you long for direction. Oh, direction, don't let it go to waste - if I found this thing I would love these slow moving days. It's dark outside at five o' clock as you're leaving your work, and it's dark outside at nine the next day - it's okay but it sometimes hurts. And we all sing "oh another day of helping folks who can't be helped". Why don't you get up on your cross - maybe from there you'll see them cope better than you. Don't you see where we're going? We're headed for hell, still praying with that same refrain: Direction, oh direction, oh don't let it go to waste. If I found this thing I could love these slow moving days. Sometimes I sing songs and I don't mean all the words. I write them 'cause they're clever-sounding compared to all what else I have heard. Can I choose to make meaning? If I can I'm not averse - I'll add it to my other weapon: the audacity of hopelessness.