Some can find it without a map,
Others not even smoke signals can help,
Some have lost their way and never came back,
Others have stayed in that place,
Wishing to live in that wishful thinking.

It brings an old familiar smell,
Although it never gets old,
It's like white noise,
A different face everyday.
They get lost in the translation,
Between silence and sound.

Some won't notice the personal hall of fame's they enter,
Others are moved to do the same,
Some don't notice the crowds they create,
Others want to replicate that consensus.

It makes you feel jitters,
Things you've never felt before,
It fills you with euphoria,
A different one each time,
That's why I like it,
It's the consequence of sound.