كلمات Nostalgic Solitude

Sometimes your tide pulls me out to sea And I die in a thrashing curse Sometimes we are kind More often, I doze So far up the beach that those who try to reach are burnt alive in the searing heat of the desert of my dispassion So far removed, I never hear the water 'Cept once or twice a month when I see a mirror And I refuse to believe in some of the things that are said to behere Let alone those that are not I'm trying to change my direction Ours is pathetic in my own humble estimation