Driving the pack, from the rear, with a trumpet, with an axe. driving to the
precipice, windswept and wet with starving neglect. eternally carving my cause
on a landscape that's blighted and scorched. i'm blighted and scorched with the
truth, we don't listen, we shoot, from the blindside. it's a landslide, but in
hindsight, i thought it was easier. but it's all much too late to turn back, i
must face an eternally fateless way in a place where my orders echo my torturous
ghosts. in a space with no windows, i'm counting the touch. all this time to
reflect on my crimes to humanity. i'm screaming profanities, just give me a
chance to start over again. i confess, yes, i'll do it again.