all i was searching for was a line in the sand
or an outline of a hand
that had been there once
but hasn't been there since
and i would never know if they covered their tracks
i don't need to know
my demian, your demian, our demian
where are you now
'cause it's been a while
and the winter's child is born again
it's always mild outside your memory
all our lives are bent 'round the signs
arrested by the search for
my demian, your demian, our demian
where are you
we are conduits
ornamental conjugates
reflex of a coastal split
born out of fever and
we'll return when succeeded
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