Love is all. But he doesn’t believe a god,
Wrapped snugly in pure white light. Fooling even God, he leads us to the end.
Opening the window one afternoon, the wind called to me.
I descended into a trance, getting my feet wet like a reckless child,
Into a spiral made of Papier-mâché…
When light shines through, jet-black darkness expands silently.
I know I mustn’t proceed,
But I can’t escape this Chaos Syndrome.
Love is all. But he doesn’t believe a god,
Wrapped snugly in pure white light.
“Whose eyes are those?” we ask, staring straight ahead.
A smiling clown behind the curtains of this stage can’t help but laugh.
Fooling even God, he acts as if he’s Raphael… leading us to the end.
Face to face in the mirror, there’s no truth to be found.
I search for a self that isn’t myself. I’ve gone so mad it’s hilarious.
I no longer need a map to find my way.
A slightly unraveled thread will be the beginning of it all.
I felt that I mustn’t pull it,
But I can’t stop this Chaos Syndrome.
Love is all. But he doesn’t believe a god,
Or even in the past, buried amidst the rubble.
“Whose eyes are those?” we ask, staring straight ahead.
Even on nights we pray eternally, surrounded by affectionate fakes,
Once the time ripens, this story will continue: a whimsical force.
Love is all. But he doesn’t believe a god,
Wrapped snugly in pure white light.
“Whose eyes are those?” we ask, staring straight ahead.
A smiling clown behind the curtains of this stage can’t help but laugh.
Fooling even God, he acts as if he’s Raphael… leading us to the end.