No clue where we're flying to,
We're flapping about like plastic bags.
The ghosts banished from my diary,
Which I burnt in early summer.
A rustling sound in the corridor,
If I was aware of the eyes behind the lens,
Golden reflections of our life,
Chocolates melting in my pocket.
The two lines come close and then get away.
Some easy tricks on Cat's Cradle,
That I can't do so well any more.
We're floating there like balloons.
The ghosts banished from my diary,
Which I burnt in early summer.
A rustling sound in the corridor,
If I was aware of the eyes behind the lens,
Golden reflections of our life,