Hit Soft Like A Featherload Of Bricks

Melancholy strikes without a warning
and you wonder where it comes from,
and you wonder where it's going.
The times when it finds you sometimes hold it deep inside them:
to be released before the morning,
when dawn strokes without a warning.

The daybreak hits soft,
like a featherload of bricks.
The microphone's turned off
or it's just barely in the mix.
You want to feel the feeling like you're up to see the dawn;
you want to hear the first bird singing,
but you've been awake too long.

Then the turning clicks into place.
You lose a sense of sadness somewhere along the way.
You know it's coming to haunt you again someday,
but you can't seem to remember fear or melancholy