I caught the bus at half past ten
I'm tracing lines with a graphite pen
The desert heat is a heavy weight
I found the door by the rusted gate
Project the silver on the white sand
Hold the whole world in a shaking hand
Spin the reel fast till the colors bleed
This kind of magic is all I need
You hum a tune in a low grey tone
A weathered king on a concrete throne
You fix the lens with a steady grip
I watch the yellow border slip
Project the silver on the white sand
Hold the whole world in a shaking hand
Spin the reel fast till the colors bleed
This kind of magic is all I need
My camera lens is a salty blur
I hear the motor begin to purr
The motel porch is a wooden stage
A sudden break in a lonely page
Project the silver on the white sand
Hold the whole world in a shaking hand
Spin the reel fast till the colors bleed
This kind of magic is all I need
You talk of films from a distant town
Where the heavy velvet curtains fall down
I snap a shot of the flickering blue
The only image that feels kind of true
Sputter and pop in the midnight air
A sudden spark and a vacant stare
Tear up the map and the old ticket stub
The beat of a heart like a rhythmic club
The morning sun is a golden glare
A sudden chill in the desert air
We pack the gear in a canvas bag
The spirit bends but it doesn't sag
Project the silver on the white sand
Hold the whole world in a shaking hand
Spin the reel fast till the colors bleed
This kind of magic is all I need
Just one more frame.
One more light.
Silver screen sand.
