Home is Somewhere.

If I could be what I wanted to be, I would be a jazz musician.

I would live in a loft high above your suburban skyline.

I would wear your urban nightlife around my neck and try on your pavement pants.

Glossy, wet, worn, they smell like the rubber that ran over them in the street next to your apartment.

I would breathe in the mist that piled the streets and follow the smoke into that hazy club.

You could tip me a dollar, and I would write you a song.

A song about indoors; one about streetlights at night; one about being nothing you expected me to be.

I would float to Japan and stay there for a year.

I would wander the streets and not understand anyone, anything, and anymore about anytime again.

I would listen to the cashier beg for my autograph and smile when the cops come to pull me away.

I would sleep on the corner and fly back the next night.

I would wait for the taxi in the pelting rain.

Soaking my urban nightlife and my pavement pants, the rain walks me home.

I would take each step up those matted stairs without much to care about.

Because you would be waiting there in cozy sheets and that means so much.