And I'll be here by the ocean, just
waiting for proof that there's sunsets and
silhouette dreams. All my sandcastles fall like the ashes of
cigarettes, and every wave drags me to sea. I could stand here for hours
just to ask God the question:"Is everyone here
make-believe?" With a tear in his voice, he
said "Son, that's the
question." Does this deafening silence mean
nothing to no one but me?