A man lies in his bed in a room with no doors. He waits, hoping for a prescence. Something. Anything. After spending half his life searching, he still felt as blank as the ceiling at which he stared. He is alive, but he feels absolutely nothing. So is he?

When he was six he believed that the moon overhead followed him. By nine he had deciphered the illusion trading magic for fact.

No tradebacks.

So this is what it's like to be an adult.

If he only knew now what he knew then.

I'm open.
I'm open.

Come in.
Come in.
Come in.
Come in.

I'm open.
I'm open.

Come in.
Come in.
Come in.
Come in.

Lying sideways atop crumpled sheets and no covers he decides to dream. Dream up a new self, for himself.

-Pearl Jam; "I'm Open"

Sorry is the fool who trades his soul for a Corvette.
Thinks he'll get the girl, he'll only get the mechanic.
What's missing. He's living a day he'll soon forget.

That's one more time around.
The sun is going down.
The moon is out but he's drunk and shouting.
Putting people down.
He's pissing. He's living a day he'll soon forget.

Counts his money every morning.
The only thing that keeps him horny.
Locked in a giant house that's alarming.
The townsfolk they all laugh.

Sorry is the fool who trades his love for high rise rent.
Seems the more you make equals the lonliness you get.
And it's fitting. He's barely living a day he'll soon forget.

That's one more time around and there is not a sound.
He's lying dead clutching Benjamins, never put the money down.
He's stiffening, and we're all whistling.

A man we'll soon forget.

-Pearl Jam; "Soon Forget"