People call it running away
I say I’m running towards something
We’ll all be sold on judgment day
So why must we wait around
Raindrops fall and look like bullet-holes
On the hood of your car
There’s always a victim inside
Wet and full of scars
Escaping gravity with faith
We cling to the unknown
It’s great to see a lighthouse
And angels made of snow
There’s a sweetness
To the acid in your mouth
A silent riot, cold and quiet
We are the art and we are bound