I’m walking out in a force ten gale.
Birds thrown around, bullets for hail.
The roof is pulling off by its fingernails.
Your voice is rapping on my window sill

Yesterday’s headlines blown by the wind.
Yesterday’s people end up scatterbrain.
Then any fool can easy pick a hole. (I only wish I could fall in)
A moving target in a firing range.

Somewhere I’m not
Somewhere I’m not
Lightning fuse



Released: June 2003
Found on: Hail to the Thief

This song was premiered in Lisbon, Portugal on July 22, 2002. The lyrics above come from a lyric sheet that Thom typed up for one of the Portugal/Spain 2002 shows. Also included on the lyric sheet are what appear to be extended lyrics:

somewhere I’m not in a force ten gale
swimming in an oil slick
pulled out by the tide
broke over lines, tonadoes eye.
going out o fmy mind, bad fucking vibess.
somewhere I cant hear this noise.
wildlife dying somewher with sunshine.
poisoned or poor no sharp pains or lumps.
a rare species being wiped out scattered far and wide.
eyes open him confused at a loss.
avoiding your gaze were the voices stop.
lightning fuse.
power cut.
on black ice, under floorboards.
just keeping afloat.
somewhwer Im not
just keeping afloat.
fingers dead in the ice
skin burning
watching the growths.
somewhere I cant
just change sides
bumper to bumper
nose to tail
always in my face
tv ariels bendt double, ina force ten gale.
watching someopne elses lights on the gangplank.
ive lost my train of thought, it happens all the time.
dont kno how old iam, tumbling down.
dont recognize us, thinking the wrong thoughts.
shoulkd maybe grow up
somwhere I dont give a fuck.
somwhere Im not under breaking oaks.
pulling up asphalt pulling up rocks.
the roots dig up the road
a blobk of ice
not in a rash doing bad dance.
more rain,sticking rain.
there used to be a field, now thers a lake.
somewhere im not, sandbagging.

Also included on the sheet is this quote from V, by Thomas Pynchon:

“It was one in the morning, a wind had risen and something curious too had happened; as if everyone in the city, simultaneously, had become sick of news of any kind; for thousands of newspaper pages blew through the small park on the way crosstown, blundered like pale bats against the trees, tangled themselves around the feet of Rooney and Rachel, and of a bum sleeping across the way. Millions of unread and useless words had come to a kind of life in Sheridan Square; while the two on the bench wove cross-talk of their own, oblivious, among them.”

This alternate title for this song is “As Dead As Leaves.”