Projected in the cabin, there's an agent he calls "The Wolf". Harrison and I are on a bird he built out of old sedans, balloons, and duct tape. He knocks the sword from my hands, says: “Congratulations, you’ve got the job." I match him blow for blow, counter-parry and dodge, but as the battle wears on, we're getting along.
He says, "Where have you been? I've been waiting all day." I say, "With all due respect, I'm only six minutes late." He doesn't say a thing, just nods and pulls out a sword.
I know that in the morning it's water in my headĭream of chutes and ladders, sleep through two alarms, and when I stumble through the doorway with my hands through the arms of the sweater that the dry cleaner gave me back a size down, I make it to the bus, not a second to spare, but there's freeze-frame traffic till the intersection where I am scheduled for a meeting with a man who looks like Harrison Ford. I'm swimming in my dreams across the lakeĭoesn't matter if I sleep or follow it out of bed Growing in the basements beneath a brand new town Looking for a trace of our orchard underground We could hear the sirens running up the road
Sitting on the ledge outside the second floor And we'll count the ages as they're ending
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