I can't remember
when seeing faces
in clouds and in leaves
became better than in places
And as the sun goes down
truning purpule, orange and brown
I'm pretending I don't have a secret,
pretending that I don't have to keep it,
And though I'm heading North,
will I end up right where I started from,
where I started from?
I know the pages
are turning fast
but I've read this book before
and this part doesn't last
And as my head goes down,
following cracks and lines on the ground
I am looking a little older
I am lookng over my shoulder
And though I'm heading North
will I end up right where I started from,
where I started from?