Album: The Golden Record
Take all my records, just leave me the sleeves.
You can pull out their hearts and I'll take memories.
Propellers are falling from the tops of the trees;
cutting through space, cutting through space,
cutting through space, they fall into place.
From Leuven to Losan the feeling just grew,
and it took on the shape of a bird that you drew.
Then all the way home from Paris you said
"People is place... people lose place...
people is place... and I feel misplaced."