Swaying, floating, I'm stuttering—
oh, incoherent mumblings in this
spinning globe, it's fuzzy.
I'm reminded of that time when I
was so tired I just fell asleep
right after I got home.
Although, although:
It's different this time, it's
not the same.
I can feel my existence slowly
being blown away like dust.
I'm restless, a sleeping addict, and only
because you left me here in the past,
without telling me the directions
on how to get back to the present.

Tell me, that if the past
is the home to all lonesome hearts,
then I'm a criminal escaping from
the police you call the 'present'.