Strange coincidence threw you off what your life was destined to be. Now for your own world you created you don't have to find the solution. You mean nothing and you say one, you mean nothing and you say another. Now get your fingers out of my face. Get your fingers out of my face. I will not help you build up lies. I will not hide you from the facts. You mean nothing. You can't distinguish the sections. You can't recognise any change. Your idea of being distorted is the threshold to the back of beyond. You search for eternity but you are thrown back to the moment. The common idea of both is the quicksand that pulls you down... distorted.