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So you say you know the pain of desolation, though you've never given up hope. So you say you're goof with people, though you're a prisoner of your own. And you tell yourself you got it figured out. And you know what to do. And you know where you've been. Though you haven't found inbetween. You've claimed it's a lack of love that has kept you in a fix. You claimed that it was the environment. That shoved you onto an endless quest on top of a wave. Though you won't admit that your world is flat, that you have gone over the edge. But know you know it to the final detail exactly what you're doing to yourself. You're trying to get back to a round world where there isn't a beginning or end. Though you're wondering where to start, wondering how to complete the construction of the flat surface that has intersected the horizon of your sanity.
I want somebody to lift me up out of my cage and drop me in the midst of it all happening. I want to be all happening – not all contemplating the iron of a cage, wondering about the feel of the world 'out there'.