Lyrics

By the end of the day I'll have nothing to say Rustling like leaves on the old highway You looked like the sun, so I had to look away I'll move in pages again Symphonies to amend Traded in my dialogues for paper and pen Living in crisp manuscripts till the end You drove me to this The great American novelist Fictionally you fly Pan American lines Seatbelt signs are blinking now in perfect time Your oxygen mask swaying from side to side You drove me to this The great American novelist And I'm writing it all down So it won't follow me around anymore I'm falling off the map And never coming back again But this is my novel