I

[Intro — low, close, dry] So. Who am I? A modest question, if modesty has finally lost its mind. [Verse 1] I have been a researcher with a candle and a spade. Digging under ordinary things for what the gods mislaid. I have been a psychotherapist, sitting very still, while other people found their ghosts and kindly left the bill. I have been a diver in the black underneath, looking for a pearl in the mouth of my own teeth. And yes, a tightrope walker, of a rather nervous kind: not falling left, not falling right, just falling through the mind. [Pre-Chorus] Add a little dignity, then remove it with a spoon. Put the ego near the window. Let it howl at the moon. [Chorus] I, I, who the hell is I? A question in a waistcoat looking sideways at the sky. I, I, a perfectly rare fool: part cathedral, part laboratory, part badly folded rule. Call me gifted, call me strange, call me almost wise. I am just the man who keeps surviving his own bright ideas. [Verse 2] I danced once with the scythe. It had excellent shoes. It offered me a final waltz. I said: “Thank you. I refuse.” I stole a little time from death, not much, a breath or two, then spent it on tea, bad music, and being rather true. My closest friend is Dozor, a dog of brutal grace. He steals my lunch, solves half my life, and judges my face. He looks at me as if to say: “Dear sir, let us be plain: your soul is not beyond repair, but kindly use your brain.” [Pre-Chorus] So I polish my confusion, wear my doubts with decent flair. If nonsense must be carried, I shall carry it with care. [Chorus] I, I, who the hell is I? A question in a waistcoat looking sideways at the sky. I, I, a perfectly rare fool: part cathedral, part laboratory, part badly folded rule. Call me gifted, call me strange, call me almost wise. I am just the man who keeps surviving his own bright ideas. [Bridge — spoken-sung, mock-grand] And then, of course, there is astrology. Naturally. Why be simple when one can be cosmically unclear? I look at Saturn and apologise. I look at Venus and take notes. I look at Pluto and quietly check the exits. And somewhere between the morning star and the kettle, someone whispers: Lucifer. Morningstar. Light-bringer. Troublemaker. Possibly late for breakfast. [Verse 3] So am I a healer? A clown? A scholar of despair? A gentleman with muddy boots and lightning in his hair? Am I the one who dives too deep, then lectures from the shore? Am I the fool who opens doors and then invents one more? Perhaps the answer is smaller than the costumes I have worn: a man who keeps being ridiculous and somehow still gets born. A man who sees the heavens and trips upon the mat. A rare, expensive idiot with a very decent hat. [Final Chorus — bigger, comic, warm] I, I, who the hell is I? A prayer with muddy elbows, a joke that learned to cry. I, I, a beautifully rare fool: part stargazer, part survivor, part disobedient school. Call me Navi, call me trouble, call me morning’s little scar. I am not the answer. I am only where the questions are. [Outro — soft, dry] So. Who am I? No final statement. No golden key. Perhaps a rare idiot. But apparently, me.