Mission Street is a striking dark-eyed stranger  Who speaks a language I don't know but long to learn  Its cadences fall endlessly beyond the windowpane  As I sit as though awaiting some return    And my hands are cold tonight  I'm sleepless in this dark  Forgetting what it was I came to find  And it seems that I've been wrong  More than I've been right  More than I've been right    Mission Street calls out to me by name  Then hurries on before I've hardly turned my head  Promises of answers muttered underneath her breath  Like an offering of contraband misread    And my hands are cold tonight  On the strings of this guitar  Looking for the chords of what I've left behind  And it seems that I've been wrong  More than I've been right  More than I've been right    Mission Street is alive at every hour  Like I've never been and feared I may not ever be  A light so steady on the mountains in the distance  A solitude so deep it might awaken me    Well my hands are cold tonight  But the sky is bright with stars  And I'm tearing through the veil that keeps me blind  And it seems the more I'm wrong  The more that I am right  The more that I am right