In The End, Every Hypochondriac

It's The Light Of The Oncoming Train.

If Youth Is A Defect, It Is One We Outgrow Too Soon.

The Scythers, Time And Death, Helmed Locusts, Move Upon The Tree Of Breath

Talking About The Past Is Like A Cat's Trying To Explain Climbing Down A Ladder.

Their Monument Sticks Like A Fishbone In The City's Throat.