Well, the ceiling fan spins like the months of the year, but the absolute center stays perfectly still, And these September winds cannot begin to bring you back.
Well, the ceiling fan says, "Jeff you're moving too fast. You should really slow down and try to make it last." But I'm running round in circles and thinking 'bout the past, and the January snow says "No," he can't bring you back.
And even passing time can't get you off my mind. The year starts to unwind. The seasons all combine. Suddenly you're mine. We sit and drink some wine. Everything is fine.
Bring you back. Bring you back.