John Frusciante

We met you through your fortune

You're made of high

You slipped through the streams of the city
We slip your mind



How high, how high?

Past life

How high, how high?

Leave your body



You leave the past in a field

When your odds are timed

When you stand in a plane

This ground does rise



How high, how high?

Past life

How high, how high?

Leave your body