Из альбома: Smoothing Away the Horror of Indigestion
A fabricated room within which one can sit,
And always be enclosed by material images.
This would feature sackcloth. The backdrop would imitate
Regal and Egyptian designs, as if he... wore a head-dress.
This could be a painting similar in form
to the last of the old guard. Creative, collective?
Each and every thought encroached
On the shapes, pictures, paintings, etc. etc.
I've gotta tell you... Recluse is weak. Four walls.
Escher stares back at me. Four walls.
The human shape would be me,
But I'm just a shadow,
I cannot leave his bedroom.
Chew on the leather strap! Strap! Strap!
In a room of fiction still though he shuts his eyes.
Will he ever leave his bedroom? I picture nothing will.
A fastening of fiction stalls activity
To reel from the window. No further these four walls.
I've gotta tell you... Recluse is weak. Four walls.
Escher stares back at me. Four walls.
I've gotta tell you, won't you listen. This scornful phrase 'Recluse is weak',
It's everything I think, I do within these four walls.
What then do you say, if it's picking up speed and picking up heat.
Oh I don't want to die a death within these four walls.