If you were here next to me, you'd speak of times I can only dream, even there I'm reeling, touching walls, so needing.

Waking up feels like home, at nights I seem to want more, forgetting that past is living, only in dreams so vivid.

We are hurricanes of the great glasshouse, lonely ones with fear to espouse, the fear of something haunting us, thus the estrangement, thus our society's arrangement.

Funny how we remember and forget, is it because of now, or the past?

Like vapour and mist, like dreams and memories, I smile upon you dear past.

Reflections in the great glasshouse, for us to see.