And I belong to the dying
A race whose eyes see fog
And whose path meets only choice
Their story is a monologue
Now you’re there and every view you’ve got is wrong or right in some imaginary world
Though their mouth remains open
They produce no sound
Incapable of chatting, talking
Their words come from beyond the ground
Their words are spread out there
Possessing the fields ahead
Crude and rough in no matter known
Their mind is their sleeping bed
With my eyes I could’nt see your silhouette, blurry
With my hands I could’nt reach your being, your surface fades, glancing darkly
Maybe you've met some
Tough invisible, they bark like a dog
A Steppenwolf with no purpose
I speak for all, but it remains a monologue
