And I'll be here by the ocean just waiting for proof that there's sunsets and silhouette dreams. All my sand castles fall like the ashes of cigarettes and every wave drags me to sea. I could stand here for hours just to ask God the question, "Is everyone here make-believe?". With a tear in his voice, he says, "Son, that's the question." Does this deafening silence mean nothing to no one but me?