I can't remember  when seeing faces  in clouds and in leaves  became better than in places.  And as the sun goes down  truning purpule, orange and brown  I'm pretending I don't have a secret,  pretending that I don't have to keep it,  And though I'm heading North,  will I end up right where I started from,  where I started from?  I know the pages  are turning fast  but I've read this book before  and this part doesn't last.  And as my head goes down,  following cracks and lines on the ground  I am looking a little older  I am lookng over my shoulder  And though I'm heading North  will I end up right where I started from,  where I started from?