"It's like a makeover when the filming's over and she doesn't know how to fix it so that it'll stay, and she can't figure out how to tease out her hair that way herself. And when she wakes up all the make-up has rubbed away and she doesn't know how to find her face. It was only for one single day that you looked so beautiful, baby. Now your cheeks have gone pale, and your roots dark gray. And though they nod as they notice you're nice, baby, nobody's noticing twice. Dim the lights as your memory of paradise fades. I'm like an architect who cashed his check, but he doesn't let on that it's the last one he'll get. Though he knows the funds have run dry, he wants to have fun for one final night, staring out at a skyline that he'll never change. They're saying 'though we like all things that you've made, notice no one remembers your name. As you float through time, feel your powers decline day by day.' You're like a convert who goes back to work when he can't retrieve how the clarity actually felt. When his co-workers ask him the words won't come out. And in three weeks his new leaf has rubbed away and it feels just like an average day: facing walls talking into the phone, sitting dumbly in church all alone, picking back up the magazines he'd thrown away. Well, convert, what your god whispered into youl ear you forgot once that god disappeared, and that life-changing day, you just felt it fade. But, you know, it's got to fade. You know it's got to fade," and, falling down on the couch, he says, "it's perfectly that way."