When I walk through this silver streets,
When I drink from this thick glass,
When I think and cry and cry to think,
When I burn this curse, when I breath this bless,
I'm never here, that's someone else,
It might be,
There's something else, being me.
I'm never actually sad or happy or confused,
I never am, you see,
I'm never bored or dreamily amused,
Cause someone else is for me.
I myself inhabit the lilac echoes behind what I should be,
I myself have never suffered, I just watch another's pain,
It's much easier to see life this way,
As if I'm something too precious to exist,
As if I'm life itself, beneath my wrist,
I'm the conscience of the blood,
When it's ceased the bruise's pain,
I'm the spirit, not the body,
I am not in vain.
