What is my life if not a pale imitation
Negated by a lack of direction in the atmosphere
What am I if not a pallet refined enough to distinguish between
What has been taken and to whom it belongs
What are my words but echoes in the great unknown
But no one really knows how much there is to know anyway
And hold the phone, it's from me to you I see truth all around me
And it peels away the walls of my inner psyche
I am God touching his creation gently on the finger
And I'm sitting in a giant brain dying of dehydration