What I call home's shrunk to the size of my head,
Leaving behind negative-space.
Fairwell, Friend; you've raised me well and I'll remember all you've said.
I'm leaving home, but not going someplace.

Well, this is my first time without my conscience,
And I'm getting kinda lonely.
Likewise, I'm sure, and, while my mind's eye eyes that now unguarded fence,
It starts to set in that there's only me.

Without you filtering me with their voices,
I see the world's not seasonless;
I'm allowed to sense the stretched outline behind hard, cold choices.
Heading back there, I realize this is bliss.

Coming back, with my new, or old, friend,
My conscience, outraged and jealous,
Abandons me, and the shadows on the curved, white walls start to bend.
Yes, this is who I am: rebellious.