Sun hangs high, I turn away. Failure underground. Heart is sick and fever is high. Waiting for a sound. . Like a trail of insects to me. I watch them from afar.
He's just the Perfect Young Man,. He's so well-to-do. From a good family too. You'll see. A Perfect Young Man. Never lost for words. And I'm looking forward towards.
Soliloquy by Raymond, Music by Theatre of Tragedy. Whether the thrond Monarch weareth the crown,. Which I know not whether to his belongeth;. Doth he hence the sceptre sway?.
Hist! - the sonorous orchestral ambience and the arabesque-slane'd ballerina,. Her wee feet in an alacritic maelstrom-twirl,. And the dust-hurl with her tears blendeth - Egad! this quagmire;.
Broken bottles, and a broken nose. No reason not to lounge in a pose. I could stand in shade light and laugh at you. You were wrong - it's happened to you too.
Hist! - The sonorous orchestral ambience and the. arabesque - stanc'd ballerina. Her wee feet in an alacritic malstrom-twirl. And the dust-hurl with her tears blendeth -.
Look to window and reach the eyes that stare to the sky. The snow falls so softly.... It buries the garden. All prepared for the winter, thou have sowed your seeds.
We ran across frozen mines. Sweeping through gates of dawn. As the sun was gleaming blue. Gaping through me and you.
Hearses crawl from grey haze. Timeless reign,. Shadowed by face of pain. As we wait behind our doors. For Autumns final blow to come. End of all days.