Like a cloud his fingers explode. On the typewriter ribbon the shadow grows. His hearts in a bowl behind the bank. And every evening when he get home. To make his supper and eat it alone. His black shirt cries. While his shoes get cold. It's just a dream he keeps having. And it doesn't seem to mean anything. And it doesn't seem to mean anything. One summer a suicide. Another autumn a travelers guide. He hits snooze twice before he dies. And every evening when he get home. To make his supper and eat it alone. His black shirt cries. While his shoes get cold. It's just a dream he keeps having. And it doesn't seem to mean anything. It's just a dream he keeps having. He feels lucky to have you here. In his kitchen in your chair. Sometimes he forgets that you're even there. It's just a dream he keeps having. And it doesn't seem to mean anything. It's just a dream he keeps having. It's just a dream. And it doesn't seem to mean anything.