it's awfully quiet
they have all disappeared
to foreign countries
to the lands of green grass
and better tomorrows
to insane asylums and hospitals
to the arms of the gentle grave
to rave in some another party

i'm here
like i was a century ago
watching them drift by
watching the looms spin
letting the threads run through
with too much time
and with too much sentiment

the phone doesn't ring
neither does it answer
i'm neck-down paralyzed
listening to the perfect silence
of entire universe
raging under some glass lid