And I rest my head on the tiled floor
Sickness and sleep turning me cold
And I'm still not sure
Is there some better place I could be heading towards?
Where the selfishly sick and self absorbed are welcome?
I saw the future once
I was drunk in a phone booth
My eyes were wet and red
But I could not tell what was said
And through the screams of the traffic; voices carried
Saying, "I'm sorry"