Round Here

Step out the front door like a ghost into the fog where no one notices the contrast of white on white. And in between the moon and you, angels get a better view of the crumbling difference between wrong and right. Well, I walk in the air, between the rain, through myself and back again, Where? I don't know. Maria says she's dying. Through the door, I hear her crying. Why? I don't know.
-Counting Crows