The ball of reality is tangled, And there's no needle at hand, That knits the thread of what's actual

The ball of reality is tangled, And there's no needle at hand, That knits the thread of what's actual And of the virtual page. You're afraid to look around you, The wretchedness of what's happening hits stone dead. You want, on information, to drink yourself to death, So as to feel the taste of life anew.