Black Balloons

Dara awakes like some kind of snake
She slithers across the afternoon
Mind in a twist
She notices her wrist
Tied to a string of black balloons
That's right

Tragedy it's not what it seems
Late at night we walk through our dreams

Down on the pavement Dara displays
Her brand new balloons to lookers-on
They shake their heads: She's at it again
She isn't impressing anyone
No one
No one

Tragedy it's not what it seems
Late at night we walk through our dreams
Quantifying find some other way
Just to find it's all the same
It's all the same
It's all the same