Music Is Your Only Friend Until The

Death Makes Angels Of Us All.

I Am Troubled, Immeasurably By Your Eyes. I Am Struck By The Feather Of Your Soft Reply. The Sound Of Glass Speaks Quick, Disdain And Conceals What Your Eyes Fight To Explain.

We Have Assembled Inside This Ancient / And Insane Theatre / To Propagate Our Lust For Life / And Flee The Swarming Wisdom / Of The Streets

We're Reaching For Death On The End Of A Candle We're Trying For Something That's Already Found Us

There Are Images I Need To Complete My Own Reality.