There's a certain uncertainty
About the abyssal night;
Wrapped in sheets of cold sweat,
Head propped up by ghosts.

When the whites of your eyes set
Like a full moon in the ebon sky,
And streetlights take you by the hands
Rushing you through ****-stained alleys,
You won't remember a thing.
You won't remember a thing.

For what it is
The night strips you,
Public and unashamed.
Takes your inhibitions and
Puts them in a safe place.
"You won't be needing these tonight."

That's why I wait for the
Uncertainty of the abyssal night.
To get my kicks with no baggage
And no certain memory of what
I'd left behind.