It's another Sunday morning now, and that Sunday morning we spent making love feels so far away. Our lives have changed so much. You have performed another dastardly deed and got caught this time. They locked you up and threw away the key. And I find myself getting sucked into the shadier sides of society more and more as I do whatever it takes to get you out of that wretched place. I find myself thinking deviously, as always, but this time actually trying to figure out how to get away with the illegal acts I conjure up in my brain. I find myself meeting shady characters in back alleys, trying to get them to help me break you out. It's not easy. As much as I am devious, I am aligned to use my devious nature in ways that doesn't hurt anyone. Think of me as chaotic good. Having to be chaotic evil just isn't in me. And yet, I'm having to work with men who are like that, I'm having to download bomb making instructions from the Internet, I'm having to figure out how to use my lock picks for more than just the lock on your door.
Sunday morning rain is falling and I'm calling out to you
I watch the rain fall gray and dreary through the window. I gaze out the bars into the fog, into nothingness. This place is a chilly Hell. How could I have been so stupid? How could I have let myself become captured? Chalk up another point to my hubris. THEIR hubris. With each day that passes, I find myself falling deeper and deeper into the depression that all too often ensnared your soul. It's so quiet here... too quiet. I... I can't stand the quiet anymore. I yell out your name into the fog, unable to stand the silence anymore, needing to hear the voice of another. I need to hear your voice. But mine is the only one available right now. I call out your name again, Again, AGAIN. I'm calling out to you, I'm begging for you to come and break me out of my dreary cell, or at least to come and be with me, even if it's just for a little while, to come and break me out of the dreary cell of my mind.
Singing someday it will bring me back to you
I work at your desk frantically with the actuators you gave me many months ago. I know next to nothing about the task at hand, but they have all the knowledge we need. I can't believe I'm sitting here making a bomb. THEY can't believe that we're making a bomb either. They are not programmed as yours are. They are repulsed at the idea of doing evil. They try to stop me from it. But I explained to them why this is necessary, why we must destroy some property to break you out. I find myself humming as I work, singing an almost mournful song of longing, of love and return that I learned many years ago. I stop, realizing what my subconscious has me humming. A song of return. Of return to you.
Find a way to bring myself back home to you
A thought occurs to me and I leap up, grabbing some paper and pens that the prison has so graciously provided to me. They know I'm a scientist and an inventor, one of the most brilliant physicists our society has today. They know I can't just sit still and let my mind rot. My little cell has plenty of books and paper and pens, and the walls are covered in equations. As I start to scribble, I realize why this idea is so important. It's my ticket out of here. Oh, how I need to get out of this place, how I need to return to your arms. My mind wanders to that Sunday morning so long ago that we spent in bed with each other, exploring each other and our love. I've been absorbed by my depression for too long now and I'm realizing exactly how imperative it is for me to figure out how to get out, how to go home. How to go home, back home to you.
And you may not know
That may be all I need
In darkness you are all I see
Come and rest your bones with me
Driving slow on Sunday morning