The Fugitive

Gun did the talking, conversation wasn't sweet

He took the ferry to a foreign land

She fired her mouth off, always had the last word

But not this time, this time was different

Puts down deep thoughts in blue on sheets of Barcelona

Only yesterday, it seems longer

He reads between his own lines, the spaces speaking volumes

Eating out of a tin, his heart is in his mouth

Home is any map, east, west, north, or south

The headline screams from the newspaper

Motel murder mystery, girl found dead

Flashback the replay, bullets in slow motion

The bruises still show from his last bad dream

Drags himself up, smooths down his tidal wave

Climbs into photographs of stillness

Running into the rain, taxis everywhere

Falling into the lights, it's so peaceful there