Fogged Window Countdown

Breath on glass, the glass is cold Your soft-launch story almost told

Counting exits in the gloom We're riding in a rolling room (shhh)

Cheap

motel card

in my palm

Plastic edge against the calm

Now we're crashing through the night!

(crashing down!) Into the stadium light!

No more exits left to find

Leave the quiet road behind!

Fogged up windows block the highway view Just a plastic keycard,

me and you Almost counting every stop we make In this motorcycle

quiet space

Only fog left on the pane

(wash away)