At the end of the week 
Crammed [bad word] trains 
Stations go by 
But we don't know their names 
Our eyes never meet 
We flip trough catalogues 
Or gape at our feet 
To maintain control 

And there's a beacon in the middle of the town 
and when the power's out it shows the way back home. 

The camera shot 
All the grins and stares 
But when the pictures appeared 
There was no-one there 
I could hear the sound 
Distant and thin 
Of our hearts caving in 

And at the end of the week 
We'll set things on fire 

Do you know that thing 
Just before you fall asleep 
sudden shock 
And the feeling of falling down 
It's the ghosts of the past that try to sink their talons in 
and drag you back in to the dark