Dwelling in the ice-cold water
I dream of you
Making me hot chicken soup
and running your fingers
through my golden hair...

I could tear myself apart
in the solitude of four walls
and the maps of places I've never been to.

Filled with liquids and pills
I'm falling into palms of an unknown vulcano-
And I dream of you, stranger,
and of pleasently familiar fingers
running through my golden hair...
Fever. Ice. The maze with no exit.