For hours and hours
He’s sitting on a chair
By the window looking out
He doesn’t see a thing
Staring holes in the Sunday
Holes in the clouds

He rarely moves
And he barely says a word
He says things like “They have ways”
By the way he talks
By the way he walks
You can tell where he spends his days

Whenever they allow
He’s lying on his bed
In the corner looking up
He doesn’t see a thing
Staring holes in the ceiling
Holes in his life

He rarely move
And he barely says a word
He says things like
“They have ways to make you talk”
By the way he talks
By the way he walks
You can tell where he spends his days

And in the nights
Oh these never ending nights
The return of the phrases
The return of the faces
The return of the voices
The return of all the choices
A million questions
A billion suggestions
From unknown places
From unseen spaces
From in here
Or out there
From somewhere