You reach out your hand, but you're all alone, in those time passages.
There's room in the world for one historical folk-rock singer to make a decent living, and I happen to be it.
The literati in their cellarsPerform semantic tarantellas.I wish I did it half as well as them.
Nothing that's forced can ever be right, if it doesn't come naturally, leave it.
Whoever you pretend to be, you must face yourself eventually.
The evening sings in a voice of amber, the dawn is surely coming.