Friends have long faded into silhouettes and shadows,
And I am keen to go back to the farced struggle where I wallow.
But I am so content in this little bubble of time,
Which does not exist, and everything floats by.
Future, past, nor present are all the same to me,
All that is before me is, yet nothing really is at all.
I lie in the palm of God's hand,
But I am my own God, who's played hand shall fall.
Blind bliss and all play makes Jack as sharp as hell,
And fear of men's eyes makes me bid life farewell.