Her flowered dress, for the summer insane,
her lips around her knuckles in pleasure.
Who can tell me if life is black or white,
with the colors around her hair.

In the theater, the movie has broken.
The film slaps the bald head,
of the sleeping projectionist,
in the hot afternoon.

And it feels like nothing to wait,
while the screen just burns away.
And the hands are starting to shake.
And it feels like nothing to wait,
for the morning you come apart.

He's made her something she'll never get.
It's never over, not just yet.
I'd tell her but love's a secret
either burned or turned to air.

In the theater the movie slaps and spins.
The projectionist moves his chair,
and drifts off again,
in the hot afternoon.

But it feels like nothing to wait,
while your car drives off to nowhere.
And you take all that you can take.
And it feels like nothing to wait,
for the things you can't unstart.

On a road outside Paris, France,
your son is watching the nuns bike past.
He breaks free of a dozen hands,
but they catch him at last.
It's not time to, time to run and play.
It's almost always time, time to run away.

But it feels like nothing to wait,
While the boys are learning to hesitate.
And the splice affixed to the acetate.
But it feels like nothing to wait.