A point isn’t so exact, is it?
Nose and palms against the glass
And a point can see like a infinite plane
The less exposure the grittier the grain
The closer to you
The less I gain

And so, back to the point
Or the plane
I only know two
They may just be the same
One is what I’ve stood upon
The other seems worlds away

You cut it in two, in four and then eight
I have only cut so much
But it seems you end in the same place
You got points of a point
You’re on an island in a field of hay
You got speckles of a spectacle
You’re atop your grandfather’s toupee

Well, tell me, should I stay?
It makes all the difference
In this milky way
In my thick skull
In my chewy brain

A needle is sharp to a finger
Smooth to the smallest molecule
Find the floor and break it
Find whats yours
Get some guts
Then, take it
Chew like the happiest fool