Walking in the bandit's orchard one might ask is this really all that strange? Are we only wearing masks? But the question arising to be seen is not within ourselves. It only lives in others, and in others it shall dwell This fantasy eludes us, yet we follow it till death And this fantastical journey we'll follow, follow until our final breath.
The lands in which we wallow are tormented with this wish, and the people who live here are only thriving off the fish. It's December in September and Winter in July We'll never know what our lives hold, so until then we'll only lie.