It is a curse

To have a flying soul

And a cinderblock mind

To feel the call of the sky

But to be afraid of heights

I am Schrödinger's cat

Alive and dead

At the same time

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Was it all real, 

what was said in the night?

Words sound different in the morning. 

But isnt the Romantic the one who knows right? 

He is the one who sees clearly 

that other world moving through us. 

Believe the heights, believe the depths;

it is the banality of the middle ground that lies, 

not the joy of the morning or the pain of the night. 

I must cling to what is ...

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