What the hell is this? 
You said, "It's art, just fuckin' mirror it." 
Where did we go wrong? 
If not here, where do we belong? 
In a shot of sun off an airplane far above her? 
In the glint of the foot-burnished manhole cover? 
In a light, a sign of one kind or another? 
In the gleaming eye of a fighter or a lover? 

Sitting here at the Horton's, 
so you know this is important. 
If not here, then where? 
If not now then when? 
When a feather's an immovable force? 
When the stampede's an obstacle course? 
When we're a Vancouver divorce? 

Now that we've hammered the last spike 
and we've punched the railroad through, 
thought there'd be more to say 
thought there'd be more to do. 
I love your paintings-don't take your colors away. 
I've grown more fearful of them every day. 
Swimming up their dark rivers to discover your source, 
a source of strange and unrequited remorse. 
And I found the end of the world, of course, 
but it's not the end of the world, of course. 
It's just a Vancouver divorce. 
It's just a Vancouver divorce.