This Isle
I keep on asking why every motion of the moments between the content of the notion could only revolve in the question that asks for a fee. You know the answers all written at the back of the paper but you said, “Oh my God!” and the facts that attacks my doubts fall into place. Flipping the pages, you and your funny faces, starting all over, looking over my shoulders, but I keep on asking; Now, where will my heart find land?
