He struggles to the breakfast table,
still hung-over, hardly able to come
to terms with Monday's new demands,
to activate the microwave,
to reheat Friday's take away,
the cafetiere to muster up
some coffee from the grains.
He lights the next last cigarette
and promises himself,
as he retches in the sink,
to change his ways.
He dreams inside the Sun,
of Zoë, from London, 25.
She's foetal on the foldaway,
staring at the laundry in the corner,
that she should have done the night before.
Listening to her flat mate
singing Stones songs in the shower,
she hopes she leaves hot water
when the bathroom's finally free,
she cries into the mirror
and smudges her mascara,
she's Zoë, from London, 25.
When you're looking for somebody,
you might not even see them,
when they're standing there
in front of you, right before your eyes.
If you're looking for somebody
you're going to need some help.
You know you'll never find her when
you're still looking for yourself.
He races to the subway station,
out of breath and out of options.
He couldn't make the phone call
to explain himself away.
He's locked in a reality
that's taking time to sink in,
‘cause he's lost inside a daydream,
his mind is occupied
He turn's his back on everybody,
on Zoë from London 25.
When you're looking for somebody,
you might not even see them,
when they're standing there
in front of you, right before your eyes.
If you're looking for somebody
you're going to need some help.
You know you'll never find her
when you're still looking for yourself.
She clutches at the broken heel
from tripping down the escalator,
chasing her white rabbits
through the tunnels far below,
where she moves around invisible,
to all concerned anonymous,
a dream girl in a nightmare
on a journey to the stars.
She makes her journey to the stars...
At the Micklegate, where you lost
your way and time stood still.
At the Micklegate, with my heart
in chains, the dream was killed.
At the Micklegate, where you lost
your way and time stood still.