I can't remember when seeing faces in clouds and in leaves became better than in places. And as the sun goes down truning purpule, orange and brown I'm pretending I don't have a secret, pretending that I don't have to keep it, And though I'm heading North, will I end up right where I started from, where I started from? I know the pages are turning fast but I've read this book before and this part doesn't last. And as my head goes down, following cracks and lines on the ground I am looking a little older I am lookng over my shoulder And though I'm heading North will I end up right where I started from, where I started from?