'Step out the front door like a ghost
                        Into the fog where no one notices
                        the contrast of white on white

                        And in between the moon and you
                        the angels get a better view
                        of the crumbling difference between wrong and right

                        I walk in the air between the rain,
                        through myself and back again.
                        Where?             I dont know

                        Maria says she's dying.
                        Through the door i hear her crying
                        Why?             I dont know

                        Round here we always stand up straight
                        Round here someting radiates...'                       -- Counting Crows