I have this feeling there are things to be done
Mountains to climb, races to run
But I’m locked in this house, fog on the window panes
And my body is wrapped in cellophane.
I can not see the days going by
Or break free no matter how hard I try
My time is fleeting, the end is looming
Could it be that I’m cocooning?
I could soon break out and learn to fly!
Or live this way until I die.