What gives this mess some grace unless it's kicks, man - unless it's fictions, unless it's sweat or it's songs? What hits against this chest unless it's a sick man's hand, from some midlevel band.. He's been driving too long on a dark windless night, with the stereo on, with the towns flying by and the ground getting soft. And a sound in the sky, coming down from above, it surrounds you and sighs and is whispering of what pulls your body down, and that is quicksand. So climb out quick, hand over hand, before your mouth's all filled up. What picks you up from down unless it's tricks, man? When I've been fixed I am convinced that I will not get so broke up again. And on a seven day high, that heavenly song punches right through my mind and just hums through my blood. And I know it's a lie, but I'll still give my love. Hey, my heart's on the line for your hands to pluck off.