Miracle Of 86 I Hope That I'm Wrong
Somewhere around 1 am on the western trail, I let my
excesses get the better of me and I started to wax
philosophically on the ins and outs of our youth. Could
this be any more awkward? I don't know. I think that I
think more when I'm in love, falling asleep on a
stranger's house, counting down calendar days. The
summer's over, and our routine's older. Nobody's wiser,
and nobody's feeling the same as they did last summer,
when plane rides were all the rage. I've still got my
ticket stubs stuffed in my wallet. I can't compete with a
continent, and I can't compete with time, but I'll try.
This is either the last song for you or the first one for
me. Missed me, missed me, now you gotta kiss me, but only
if you mean it, and only if you know what it means to me.
Let's end the question mark session with a statement I've
been trying to write all day. To all of the thinkers and
traveling singers, dorm-room philosophers at home or
abroad, I leave you with one little piece of me before I
go sending you off: I hope that I'm wrong.
