Analog Park

In the garden, in the park, on a bench, I sit. A newspaper floats on the breeze of this late summer. It is coming my way, I patiently wait. I see the sign, it's on the road and I think it's crazy In the garden, of the park, on a bench, I watch. The sandy feet of the children. Pearls of sweat run across their beautiful faces. You see the sign, it's on the road but I think you're crazy You are, you are the sign of my unrelief As I easily get inner contact with myself, I notice distress grabbing for my throat. It is time to reach out. To find something that isn't there, You see the signs, they're on the road but I think it's crazy You are, you are the sign of my unrelief