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In a bubble of illusion,

tasting the bitterness all around,

you find the house where I'm not

and I keep playing in confusion.

Since my head has a thousand places

and a thousand of paranoid wounds,

my favorite safehouse is away from the hellhounds

whom I still haven't fought.

They keep my feet away from collisions,

and with their freezing breath I leave traces all around

to how to walk safe, to how to walk straight,

(forget the cold, forget how to be found).

pretty silence