They say nothing to me I say nothing to them Sometimes I can't believe this is home I've heard it before I thought I'd been over that You'll never really pa** the things You're afraid of The man on the plastic bag looks like terror He's staring at me. I can't say why His face seems spoiled When I think of calling a friend, I notice that Most of them have mutilated into acquaintances Maybe that's my fault, maybe it's a form of getting old I'm used to small talk at the moment