All Over the Place So, driven to distraction by witless repartee and wittering conversation of deep banality, eventually he seeks out interraction, fresh eccentricity. On closer observation nothing's all that it seems to be, nothing's more than it seems to be.
He scattered himself all over the place while hiding behind closed doors and day by dull day fell more off the pace - a life suspended in live pause. He gave of himself in fractional clues, oblique synchronicities but nobody knows how alien he grew, how, drained away behind his open face, he'd lost his identity.
Now nothing else is left behind, just the fallen side of the sky; a thousand miles away from home I feel the cold ghost breath fly by out of the dream. Now the image blurs of how we seemed of what we were.