Back to the cold restless streets at night. Talk to myself about tomorrow night. Walls of white protest a gravestone in name. Who is it now? It's always the same.
Who is it now? Who calls me inside? Are the leaves on the trees just a living disguise? I walk the street rain tragicomedy. I'll walk home again to the street melody.
Life through a window. Discolored pain. Mrs. Brown's washing is always the same. Do you feel in me anything redeeming? Any worthwhile feeling?
Is love like a tightrope hanging on my ceiling?
