There's a man talking
But my wallpaper is yellow
And the candle illuminates it so.
My mirror flickers light forth
And the man still talks
As the light returns back.
There's some mumbled words,
But my ceiling is white
And the cracks make it more so.
The carpet smells synthetic
And the words are all blurred
As the nylon scratches my arms.
The air I breathe out
Feels cooler than in -
I think there's a war somewhere else;
I just don't care -
It's late and I feel cold.