Scratch... scratch... The walls are talking... I hear things—they go bump in the night— Shadows dancing out of my sight. I build my memory from scratches on the wall... Traces of a history... before the long fall. I listen to every song I ever wrote, Perfect to me... (cherished by some). Every lyric is a fraying coat— Words from a mind... come undone. The string that holds it all is worn so thin— Where do the lies end? Where does "me" begin? I close my eyes... (I close my eyes...) The dots connect... a frantic design! IS IT EVER WHAT I THINK? OR AM I STANDING ON THE BRINK? I hold these memories—precious and gold— Are they truths... or stories I’ve been told? (Are they fabricated?) Mind traces patterns— Connecting the ghosts— Who is the guest... And who is the host? AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH—! IS IT EVER WHAT I THINK? OR AM I STANDING ON THE BRINK? The fabric is tearing, the threads turn to grey— Fabricated spirits... lead me away! (A fabrication...) (A fabrication...) Scratches on the wall... Are they even... mine?
