Music. Numbers.
Fire. Brothers.
It's night time.
The death of my mind.

It's early enough to lie in bed.
It's cold enough to keep my eyes closed.
Strings. Strains.
I rub my cheek on the pillow case.

Words printed on pages,
torn to unreadable pieces,
laid in the trash,
yyiuiyttm,kulfytsd /   ?G:

All rite, break time

you prove to your promise

hands dig through gross pre-soil

oh you're out of time, Stand up, Leave the walls.