Coming Down

Sunday morning, my head's made of glass
And it shatters as the day rolls past
Foggy moments of the night before
I can't take this feeling anymore

How I found my bed's a mystery
But if I've learned a thing from history
It's that when I've left myself for dead
Golden hands will bring me home again

Future figures falling through the needle's eye
Gently blinking as it looks up at the velvet sky