The Author has a penchant for reminiscing with
All the characters he had at his whim.
He's thumbing through his books,
Hoping for a different end,
Even though the tales were spun from his pen.
But nothing can be done,
The lines have been sung. The End.
Ancient alibi, paint your fears across the sky!
A whispered word falls from your pen and stains the parchment.
a***yze the past through your magnifying glass,
Looking for your line to change,
But nothing can be done.
The lines have been sung. (stop)
Take a seat just where you please, let's try to get inside your mind.
What's wrong with your head?
If we won't believe what isn't evident to the eye
Then how can we be so certain that the Author is a lie? How then?
No way to read your maker's mind,
But the doubt brings you there again, and back again, you're cycling ‘til The End.
If we can't know the Author's lines,
Aren't we all just walking blind?
We are.
All the characters he had at his whim.
He's thumbing through his books,
Hoping for a different end,
Even though the tales were spun from his pen.
But nothing can be done,
The lines have been sung. The End.
Ancient alibi, paint your fears across the sky!
A whispered word falls from your pen and stains the parchment.
a***yze the past through your magnifying glass,
Looking for your line to change,
But nothing can be done.
The lines have been sung. (stop)
Take a seat just where you please, let's try to get inside your mind.
What's wrong with your head?
If we won't believe what isn't evident to the eye
Then how can we be so certain that the Author is a lie? How then?
No way to read your maker's mind,
But the doubt brings you there again, and back again, you're cycling ‘til The End.
If we can't know the Author's lines,
Aren't we all just walking blind?
We are.