I've spent winter indoors while I worked outdoors

When spring comes you're a no name

We all walk in our own shame

Sonic echoes go on for not long, but luminant echoes go on for eons

Where I roam is made of but not set in stone

Even if it were, that illuding solidity will soon too disperse

Where I roam is not my home

Able to know where each road goes, but not the infinite in the coincidence each inch of it holds

Able to see where every branch leads, but not the infinite in the arrangement of the cells in each leaf