The gray is much brighter in New York
The concrete, the sky, the pigeons
Aglow in the yellow marquee lights
Reopening old dimensions
We're breathing in the grime of an ancient dream-like time
I'm happy alone, but happier with you
Capture the scene, check the machine
Make sure the tape is rolling
All is viewed through a lens by Duchamp
Or I guess the camera's broken
I left my glasses back in sleepy Hackensack
You take my hand and lead me through the underground maze.
Subways are shooting stars
Melting your cinnamon heart.