Dreams, inconsistent angel things. Horses bred with star-laced
wings. But it's so hard to make them fly, fly, fly.
These wings beat the night sky 'bove the town. One goes up and
one goes down. And so the chariot hits the ground, bound, bound.
We have forgotten (don't try to make me fly) how it used to be
(I'll stay here, I'll be fine). How it used to be (don't go and
let me down), how it used to be (I'm starting to like this town).