In the dark room, with the blinds down, the monster awaits half-sleeping / Its ear on the door, trying to capture the roar / Of life and the world outside / In its self-sufficient imperfection, under the covers, it's transforming / Its huge head, a perfect loudspeaker of false impressions / Too long for the covers, its legs get tangled in the threads of an obsolete connection / This monster is half-sleeping, yet always on its ugly toes / That's part of its eerie charm, I suppose / Cause the monster is here, the monster is near / The monster is always in me / And that's its beauty