You step off the curb in the rain.
The meter is ticking the pain.
I drive you down corridors deep.
Where all of the old records sleep.
You walk past the heavy steel door.
The basement has a concrete floor.
You reach for a box on the shelf.
A place where you find your own self.
Brown leather gloves in a golden beam.
A quiet place like a heavy dream.
Soft light on the skin of the hide.
The secrets you keep locked inside.
The air tastes like paper and ink.
It gives a tired driver time to think.
You touch the old page with a care.
A heavy kind of magic in the air.
Brown leather gloves in a golden beam.
A quiet place like a heavy dream.
Soft light on the skin of the hide.
The secrets you keep locked inside.
The city is loud and the traffic is fast.
But some kinds of beauty are built to last.
Take your time baby just slow the ride.
With nothing to fear and nothing to hide.
The yellow lamp glows on the wall.
You stand there so steady and tall.
The leather is worn at the seam.
Like a soft glow from a distant beam.
The fare is paid and the night is cold.
A story that never was told.
You leave the archive in the dark.
Leaving behind a tiny spark.
Brown leather gloves in a golden beam.
A quiet place like a heavy dream.
Soft light on the skin of the hide.
The secrets you keep locked inside.
Just leather and light.
Keep it locked tight.
Leather and light.
