Alone, fragile, whole, messy in my own black hole.
The dinner isn't ready yet, the dinner for one.
No candles're lit up just cigarette smoke hangs in the room.
And the flowers in the vase fade, they don't bloom.
I feel childish reminiscing the past.
But sometimes a friend calls, asks:
What's up?
Then we go to watch a movie, we go in a piano concert...
But my visions' re unclear and my vision is blurry.
In January Vienna is a dead city inhabited by silhuettes.
I hate its ways, it's cold, two dimensional, flat.
The sun, I miss her, her hidden beauty.
I could even imagine the world without me.
She wouldn't stop
but I've decided
the best way out is to heal the terror inside.