fold me into something else, press my edges down with nails.
i am outstretched, widespread on the plains
and my hut is made of hay held together by toothpicks.
i am waiting every night for the man with the matchstick.
everyone gets a pair of wings to cross the big lake.
truth is, it's just as impossible as riding on snowflakes,
but thanks for the possibility of flying out of this life,
but i prefer the hay and the matchstick man because they shine so bright.