In the end, they're all blurs.
Passing through the streets, some stopping to say words at me
Fewer seeking the words that I can give to them.
Each next one more insecure than the one preceeding.
It's apparent we are all needing of it.
With each step, I try to find what I left behind from the previous stride.
The only thing that I can feel is that everyone else has found their I-T.
But who am I to convince you that I'm real too?