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.