Now night arrives with peculiar viciousness,
free from the strange glow it once would descend against.
You could see the factory lights from any given point in the town
on orbits of razor wire. Now darkened, they still keep us down.

I suffer this like a dream.

My father sits down on the porch stair next to me.
He rubs a tattoo that's lost all its clarity.
But the image depicted has power; it serves to remind
how time will conspire to erase every trace of a life.

I suffer this like a dream.

Just close your eyes and point anywhere on the map
and gather the few things the banks cannot take back.
Did you in your life ever think you’d be present to see
the kind of events that could turn atlases obsolete?

I suffer this like a dream.

No I,
I can't stop thinking about it,
I can't stop thinking about it...
it just keeps going on.

I suffer this like a dream.