Where The Wind Sleeps

At the stroke of midnight I'm awake and writing like the breeze. The balcony's a symphony of sound beneath the trees. Beer lights burn like signal fires across a battlefield. The highway's distant, concrete call phones home, but just gets me. Here along the rooftops you can plainly see my friends are tomcats on the prowl, 'cause their story's familiar to me. Way down here where the wind sleeps crosstown traffic meets side streets. Way down here where the wind sleeps. Lifetimes of senseless victories and glorious defeats fill these country hillside graves where town pretends to be. Way up on the writer's porch the tapping of the keys to give them what they dearly want but never what they need. Down there along the avenue young toughs following me. Your step's unsteady, your heartbeat's ready to split your chest in the street.