We play the parts of dead end streets nownNeglected lacquered box of secretsnWhat does your mouth holdnBesides rhetoric and pedestrian complaints, complaisance?nnWe're face to face with something blindingnIt's beautiful but we can't see it yetnThe snow covered trash bins, the light windnnI know it's not the same as it was when we were kidsnnI'll be around in ways you may not understand.