The script that I ever wrote,
and the earth that's spinning,
and the yellow and blue,
it all takes me back to the young broken glass theory made in the room full of books all around her.
They were small,
little like a bunch of stones and the long chair on the side of corridor between the flowers and the windows.
Then the fences,
I used to stand below the flag between a few...
(Why am I always looking at them?)
It's a tricky trick when you go round around very closely to the eyes without hiding behind something tricky.
What's behind you?
I don't even know either.
And suddenly,
I can't go anywhere anymore
But the shore,
And magically,
that broken glass transcends his believing as it doesn't even matter
Standing here,
A little distance from your eyes, and
Watching me,
whispering to you...
