My summer in the snow-globe,
the world took off it's clothes.
Our blades were cut from grass
like shards of broken glass.
And if I found them all I'd know
the secrets of the past.
Perfect edges of our souls, and
where they go at last,
where they go at last.
Oh, to know once more.
Oh, to notice,
Oh, to notice!
Why should I care
what's out there?