Where would we be without illusion?
Where would we go?
The world would be one vast confusion
of realities long ago …

The man still waits by the phone,
the rain still cuts his face,
he’s waiting all alone
imagining some faraway place,
some faraway land,
some faraway stone his hand
had put upon the foundation of home.

The wind mumbles a tune;
the drops can’t pick it up …
the wait is over too soon,
and were it not for the thoughts he had,
and were it not for the sighs,
and were it not for the dream he had,
the universe encompassed in his mind
couldn’t even have shattered,
nonexistent.