I can't enjoy the taste of fanciness, devoid of life or death,
I enjoy the taste of imprints left, they hold the gift of history.
Every piece of nature wrapped in the chaos and stillness of darkness.
Places filled with the magnetic air of chilling nothing,
In the breeze of far sounds, maybe music.
A deprivation chamber, relaxing your conscious,
Inviting your subconscious to the dance,
Awakens the butterflies which love stories portray
Unrealistically.

There’s a house up on a hill,
At infinite kilometers high.
There’s a house up on a hill,
Where the world seems like a doll palace.
Where the grass is always green,
Where you can hear every gulp of coffee.