I've spent winter indoors while I worked outdoors
When spring comes you're a no name
We all walk in our own shame
Sonic echoes go on for not long, but luminant echoes go on for eons
Where I roam is made of but not set in stone
Even if it were, that illuding solidity will soon too disperse
Where I roam is not my home
Able to know where each road goes, but not the infinite in the coincidence each inch of it holds
Able to see where every branch leads, but not the infinite in the arrangement of the cells in each leaf
