Neon signs reflected on wet tarmac.
Cars passing by with lights like eyes.
You look behind sensing you're followed.
Then right before you, out of a gateway,
a group of monks approaches you
all dressed in red bordered frocks.
They surround and block your way.
They want to know what you think,
they want to know how you feel,
they want to know who you are.
You don't have an answer.
So what you say?
You are not sure what you think.
You don't believe in what you feel.
You've forgotten who you are.
The monks nod, they don't get angry.
«We keep track of the thoughts in your head.
We even know 'bout the hole in your heart.
Make no mistake.
You’re being controlled.»
And then they let you pass on.
You run, run fast.
Are you pursued?
Not that.
Something is calling you.
Something intangible.
Like light on black water.
Like that shooting star you wished upon so long ago.
And you wonder if you'll ever catch it.
Those cars driving past seem to be empty,
but they know where to go.
You're empty, too, but without destination.
Run any way.
No matter where to.
One thing's for sure:
There’s no turning back from Circle Eight.