This is shadow theatre and less about what is real.
Through games and magazines, all in their process colour,
On canvas walls that leaked when touched,
I was the summer flower, fragrant like fire.
We all have silver dreams but their is no Jacob’s Ladder.
Climbing our own tree, grasping at branches that matter.
And when I find myself there, most of the feeling was gone.
And when I finally got there, most of the feeling was gone.
Most of the feeling...
So let’s play shadow theatre and forget about what is real.
Through lines in their magazines, all dressed in their nice bright colours.
On velvet walls that speak when touched,
I am the Autumn flower that does not see it’s Winter.
And when I find myself there, most of the feeling was gone.
And when I finally got there, most of the feeling was gone.
Most of the feeling...