Story Behind The Song

Monday, 3.15am I write this as I await the cab I called from the scratch stained box on the wall of the hall, comfortless small, my fingers tired for those tiny numbers. Now as I stand in the street, on this, the first day of the week and moments appear brushed in the damp of a reluctant rising, I can only think and have thoughts for the place that will one day know me, for the girl who saw but did not come forward. It's true that the ascending sun has been charted on it's common journey and planets and moons keep precise time in mysterious unison whereas you and I can only smile and grit teeth in a sea of matter of fact under currents. This day will be a mass of, just so you know, disaster area eventual paralytic convulsion, but it's no waning puzzle, it all comes down the same anyway. And now the cab comes around the corner At the end of the road. When you read this I shall mostly be asleep and you'll wonder why I chose to write such things in the ignorant silence of the dying night? Your only answer will be the question I was afraid to ask.