What, then, do I do to make you something When all I take from you is my own refelction? And when the day has all but forgotten me, How, then, do I hold you with my blunted hands? I have made an end; take me home again And I'll leave my shoes at your door. Show me another room, somehwere I can call my own; And though you have built a wall around you, I am standing on the inside. Now here I face the long-fading road again And the familiar fall of my old shadows, But if I'm to show you Something, anything that's true, I can draw from only what I know; And I'm starting on the inside. There's not life enough Under the in-between.