Per the script,
It all ties together:
The talking,
The entrance into the apartment,
The light refracting off shoulderblades
And the endless trail
.
Of fantasy,
Or the mind’s need for fantasy
When having broken
The clouds’ rhapsody
Is a sun-scorched reality:
Of us all governed by fear,
Of seeing plain as day
That this IS improvisation,
This is not divine providence
In a candy coating sung into crystallization.