Ghosting

In this hidden cave a man is sheltering from the flood
Pressed against his magic box of lights and lights and lights and dripping blood
His eyes have long been bleeding from the brightness of the rays
It burns his skin and hurts him as he tries and tries and tries to look away

Living in fear
Living in fear

In the back of every taxi
In every cash-point queue
Round the bricks of every corner
The real thing could pounce on you
In the arms of every stranger
In the distance of each view
On the slabs of every pavement
The real thing could pounce on you