It was our last night at the Chelsea Hotel,
curtains pulled tight over thin glass doors.
Sirens wail down below but we're locked up
on the fourth floor.
All that's below is a spiral of paint,
all that is above us is a spiral of sky,
all that's between us is all that we're not
and we're giving it all to the New York night.
So close your eyes, and hold on tight
and wrap yourself around the New York night.
The fan creaks to the bodies below.
Light seeps from under the door.
The key is in the lock from the rush inside
to give it all to the New York night.
So close your eyes, and hold on tight
and wrap yourself around the New York night.
Sirens wail on 23rd,
drowning out our every word,
but there is nothing left to say.
It's better off this way.
So close your eyes, and hold on tight
and wrap yourself around the New York night.

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