We stood like statues at the gate
Vacation's come and gone too late
There's so much sun where I'm from
I had to give it away, had to give you away
Vacation's come and gone too late
There's so much sun where I'm from
I had to give it away, had to give you away
So empty, they are.There's always been something about buses and bus interchanges that grips me. Fascination - hardly as a child, but more so now.
The way the buses come, park, rest; whilst at the same time others go, run.. Almost as if they enjoy plunging into the freedom of movement, even expression. But not for long. For soon after, they return. The Captain gets tired, shifts have to be rotated, taken.
But journeys you take, each different, special in its own way. Imitated, emulated, but never replicated. Impossibly so, despite the fact that it seems all too easy to slide into that. Sloppy work, it's called. Reserved for the languid.
It goes on and on, refusing to acknowledge composure. P'haps, you'd prefer to try another number this time?
Lesson learnt, though. Even joyrides have to end, somehow.