Going out in cars to find
Whatever drives the artists mad

Leaving all we had and
Leaving all we had to give behind

Leaving brushstrokes on a canvas
With a paint that never dries
Hoping only that the better parts
Will flash before our eyes before we're
Off again
On a whim

Going out in cars at night
To have a highway to ourselves

No we haven't got a map
We're only going somewhere else

And all the things we've yet to see
Become the things we left behind
It's worth it just to see that blur
We'd rather travel than arrive

No we haven't got a map
And no we haven't got a plan
But we're content to have our friends
and some vague picture of the end
That may well tear us all to shreds

And though we really were content
We found we felt far more than that
Going out in cars with paint, if
there's no way we'll take the one that we invent
we never seemed that far away
From what was falling into place
Or from a fireplace and beds
where we could rest our noisy heads before we're
Off again
On a whim
Leaving all we had
The goodbyes were sad




Had we been standing still instead
Had we been hiding from the rain

Had we been lying in
What passes for a home when we're afraid

Could we have been content?
With having years and years instead
And trying not to hear the
restless, reckless parts inside our heads

Perhaps not yet

Imagine when the noise is dim
We open up the curtains just to
find an unexpected and unwelcome
lack of anything behind them.

Perhaps not yet

But I imagine on my deathbed
I'd confess:

I never felt the change

And so we're
Off again
On a whim

And though it's only my best guess
I think what drove them mad was this:

How do you find yourself if you're always somewhere else?