somewhere between where the grassroots stop growingnand where the rocks begin heating our answers will lie therento the questions we'll ask when all we love has chosen to collapsenand when we always turn to the facts and other logical thingsnnand all i know is this time of yearnthe clouds project a little higher than they ought tonand they keep the sun from shining through onto my facenand i recall climbing in the treesnand sifting through the leaves to find some peculiar thingni can't feel much anymore but i felt that breezennsomewhere between where the grassroots stop growingnand where our hearts begin beating our summer nights will die therenand we'll wake to find that it's enough just to be alivenand we're always chasing from behind to find some logical thingnnand all i know is this time of yearnthe clouds project a little higher than they ought tonand they keep the sun from shining through onto my facenand i recall climbing the trees and sifting through the leavesnto find some peculiar thing i can't feel much anymore but i felt that breeze