new books are empty,
as old books are, too,
their ink already faded
or not yet written into
the time between
that's when they're alive
to gather on the shelf
where they all look alike

Chorus:
why were they written
who wrote them, anyway?
to wither on that shelf
'til they're taken away

and yet some stand higher
than others low and denied
judged by their covers
never cared for what's inside
and even within them
the lines can be seen
but meaning can not
'cause it lies in between

Chorus

senseless the phrases
of stories that never end
we better live our own lives
before we carbon them
they don't smell
and they don't taste
they don't feel
they're not unreal like us

Chorus