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 some other way
Just to find it's all the same
It's all the same
It's all the same