In Manhattan, there is a beautiful view,
longing to escape a troubled past of euphemisms and vivid nightmares;
the professor took me to the beautiful view,
and said goodbye, like the coward he was.
They showed him the view, and he was pleased;
I saw the view from the room with no windows.
What madness drew us to this room?
Philadelphia, a man by many numbers.
I know those who have stayed in the view,
and come back with frightening new eyes;
when gold became a useless cover,
my eyes were opened for awhile.
Now I can't even think about it,
because at seven, I dreamed every night,
even when I couldn't sleep,
because reality can only open your eyes so far
before the gold returns once more,
ready to blind you with yet another beautiful view,
and soon, there is no truth in sight,
just the way you like it.
Isn't it funny how people can have such a striking resemblance
to one another?
When I saw you out of the corner of my eye,
I could swear you were someone else.
Isn't it funny how people can be one another?
And at once, you were all the same,
with deep thoughts of deeper explorations
of the far corners of the human eye,
where everything was new,
and everyone is there;
it's a strange world.
And some people just wanna play acoustic guitar
on a mattress of dying dreams,
and die into a beautiful view;
I don't know what I want.
And some people live in the '20s,
with love for women in the backseats of cars,
and into the bottomless pit
at the edges of the Earth;
it's a strange world.
In Manhattan, there is a beautiful view;
in the professor's eyes, as he jogged
from room to room.