** Virus


The same way as sand turns rain into mud
Something eats my mind and makes it corrupt
It advises me to do things and how to think
But I can only think: Isn't this what I think think?
But all the while I walk down the streets I can feel it
Like I'd caught a fish, I just don't know how to reel it in
And sometimes in the wind I can almost see it
But I don't know if I just think or believe it

And what would be the difference, since I know it's there?
'Coz if I know it's there, I know it's there
But everyday it poses me the same old question:
How, in fact, do I know it's there?
I know I can't pinpoint it, 'coz I think it's too big
On the other hand, my pinpointing-pin might be too big
What if I keep pointing in the wrong directions
Would it even help if I knew it's spatial dimensions?

And what about it's temporal coordinates?
Are space and time each other's subordinates?
'Coz the future is a present that's given by the past
But the present is the only time that will ever last
And given the pertinent facts in this case,
I can't even be sure if I have a face
And in the same way as sand turns rain into mud,
I think my mind minds my mind and nothing but.

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